
Book /Sf 7 



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%5>t>^*^ /v^^^/^^^C^Vii^vt » 



THE 

W ORKS 



QP 



ROBERT BURNS 

CONTAINING HIS LIFE; 

BT 

JOHN LOCKHART, ESCt. 
THE POETRY AND CORRESPONDENCE 

OF DR. CURRIE'S EDITION; 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POET, 

BY HIMSELF QILBERT BURNS, PROFESSOR STEWART, aND OTHERS; 

ESSAY ON SCOTTISH POETRY 

INCLUDING 

THE POETRY OF BURNS, BY DR. CUKBIE; 
BURNS'S SONGS, 

PROM JOHNSON'S " MUSICAL MUSEUM," AND " THOMPSON'S SELECT MELODlEfc 

SELECT SCOTTISH SONGS OF THE OTHER POETS, 

FROM THE BEST COLLECTIONS, 

WITH BURNS'S REMARKS. 

PORMING, IN ONE WORK, THE TRUEST EXHIBITIOM OK THK MAN AND THE POET, AND THB 
FULLEST EDITION OP HIS POETRY AND PROSE WRITINGS HITHERTO PUBLISHED. 

NEW YORK- 
PUBLISHED BY LEAVITT & ALLEN, 

379 Broadway'.,.;;' ;,.\,J ;\U V''^^ i' 






F. 

9 N'02 



PREFACE lO THE FIRST EDITION. 



Irif, miiotring trifles art nut the production of the poet, who, with all 
Jie advanta^ires of learned an, and, perhaps, amid the elegancies and idle- 
ness of upper life, looks down for a rural theme, with an eye to Theocritus 
or Virgil. To the author of this, these and other celebrated names their 
countrymen are, at least m their original language, a foimtain shut up, and 
a book sealed. Unacquainted with the necessary requisites for commencing 
poet by rule, he sings the sentiments and manners he felt and saw in him- 
self and rustic compeers around him, m his and their native language. — 
Though a rh}Tner from his earliest years, at least from the earliest impulse 
of the softer passions, it was not till very lately that the applause, perhaps 
the partiality, of friendship, wakened his vanity so far as to make him think 
any thing of his worth showing ; and none of the following w-orks were com- 
posed with a view to the press To amuse himself with the little creations 
of his own fancy, amid the toil and fatigues of a laborious life ; to transcribe 
the various feelings, the loves, the griefs, the hopes, the fears, in his own 
breast ; to find some kind of counterpoise to the struggles of a world, al- 
ways an alien scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind — these were 
his motives for courting the Muses, and in these he found poetry to be 
its own reward 

Now that he appears m the public character of an auttioi, he does ii 
with fear and trembling. So dear is fame to the rhymmg tribe, that even 
he, an obscure, nameless bard, shrinks aghast at the thought of being 
branded as — An impertinent blockhead, obtruding his nonsense on the 
world ; and, because he can make a shift to jingle a ^e^v doggerel Scotch 
rhymes together, looking upon himself as a poet of no small consequence, 
forsooth ! 



It is an observation o^ ^hat celebrated poet, Shenstone, wnose divine ele- 
g!e: do honour to our lano;aage, our nation, and our species, that •- Humility 
has depressed many a genius to a hermit, but never raised one to fame !" 
If any critic catches at the word gt7iius, the author tells him once for all, 
that he certainly looks upon himself as possessed of some poetic abilities, 
otherwise his publishing in the manner he has done, would be a manoeuvre 
below the worst character, which, he hopes, his worst enemy v.ill ever 
give him. But to the genius of a Ramsay, or the glorious dawnings of the 
poor, unfortunate Fergusson, he, with equal unaffected smcerity, declares, 
that, even in hi* highest pulse of vanity, he has not the most distant pre- 
tensions. These two justly admired Scotch poets he has often had in his 
rye in the following pieces ; but rather with a view to kmdle at their flame. 
chan for servile imitation. 



\r PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 

To his subscribers, the author returns his most sincere thanks . N A the 
mercenary bow over a counter, but the heart- throbbing gratitude of the 
bard, conscious how much he owes to benevolence and friendship for gra- 
'^"ing him, if he deserves it, in that dearest wish of every poetic bosom- 
)e distinguished. He begs his readers, particularly the learned and the 
iite, who may honour him with a perusal, that they will make every al- 
*wance tor education and circum.stances of life ; but if, after a fair, can- 
did, and impartial criticism, he shall stand convicted of dullness and non- 
sense, let him he done by as he would in that case do by others — let hiiB 
be oond^jmned, without mercy, to contempt and oblivion. I 



In the Dedication of the Life of Burns by Dr. Currie to his friend Cap 
tain Graham Moore, the learned Doctor thus expresses himself as to his. 
Editorial office : — " The task was beset with considerable difficulties, and 
*' men of established reputation naturally declined an undertaking, to the 
" performance of which it was scarcely to be hoped that general approba- 
" tion could be obtained by any exertion of judgment or temper 'Po such 
" an office my place of residence, my accustomed studies, and my occu- 
" pations, were certainly little suited. But the partiality of Mr. Syme 
" thought me, in other respects, not unqualified ; and his solicitations, 
•' joined to those of our excellent friend and relation, Mrs. Dunlop, and oi 
" other friends ©.f the family of the poet, 1 have not been able to resist." 

These sentences contain singular avowals. They are somehow apt to 
suggest, what we have all heard before, that some are born to honour, 
while <,ther,< have honours thrust upon them. The Doctor's squeamishness 
in favour of persons of esitablished reputation, who might be chary of a tick- 
lish and imoracticable, if not an odious task, is in ludicrous contrast with the 
facts as they have since fallen out. Have we not seen the master-spirits 
of the age, Scott, Byron, Campbell, honouring in Burns a kindred, if not a 
superior genius, and, like passionate devotees, doing him homage ? They 
have all voluntarily written of him ; and their recorded opinions evince no 
feelings of shyness, but the reverse : they not only honour, but write as if 
honoured by their theme. But let us leave the subject, by merely pointing 
attention to the Doctor's mode of treating it. as a decisive test of the evil 
days and evil tongues amidst which the poet had fallen, and of the exis- 
tence of that deplorable party-spirit, during which the facts involving his 
character as a man, and his reputation as a poet, could neither be cor- 
rectly stated, nor fairly estimated. 

It is true. Dr. Currie's Life contained invaluable materials. The poet's 
auto-biographical letter to Dr. Moore, — indeed the whole of his letters, — 
the letters of his brother Gilbert, — of Professor Dugald Stewart, — of Mr. 
Murdoch and of Mr. Syme, and the other contributors, are invaluable ma* 
terial>. They form trulv the verv bac]*bone of the poet's Ufe, as edited b> 



V » ) 

Dr Currie. Tliey must ever be regarded as precious relics ; and however 
largely they may be used as a part of a biographical work, they ought also 
to be presented in the separate form, entire ; for, taken in connection with 
the general correspondence, they will be found to be curiously ihaitrative 
of the then state of society in Scotland, and moreover fo contain manifold 
and undoubted proofs of the diffusion and actual existence, amongst Scots- 
men of all degrees, of that literary talent, \^ hich had only been inferred^ 
hvnotheticaily, from the nature of her elementary institutions. 

A'e have no wish to detract from the high reputation of Dr. Currie. 
It will however be remarked, that the biographical part of his labours, i 
as stated by himself, involve little beyond the office of redactenr. — He 
was not upon the spot, but living in England, and he was engaged with 
professional avocations. If truth lies at the bottom of the well, he had nei- 
ther the time nor the means to fish it up. Accordingly, it is not pretended 
that he proceeded upon his own views, formed, on any single occasion, after 
a painful or pains-taking scrutiny ; or that, in giving a picture of the man 
and the poet, he did more than present to the public w^hat had come ta 
him entirely at second-hand, and upon the authority of others : however 
tainted or perverted the matter might have been, from the then general- 
ly diseased state of the pubHc mind. The Life of the poet, compiled undei 
such circumstances, was necessarily defective, — nay it did him positive in 
justice in various respects, particularly as to his personal habits and mora' 
character. These were represented with exaggerated and hideous features 
unwarranted by truth, and having their chief origin in the malignant viru 
lence of party strife. 

The want of a Life of Burns, more correctly drawn, was long felt. This 
is evident from the nature of the notices bestowed, in the periodicals ol 
the time, upon the successive works of Walker and Irving, who each ol 
them attempted the task of his biographer ; and upon tl e publications ol 
Cromek, who in his " Reliques," and " Select Scottish Songs," brought lo 
h>ht much interesting and original matter. But these attempts only whet- 
ted and kept alive the general feeling, which was not gratified in its fuii 
extent until nearly thirty years after trie publication of 'Or. Currie' j work. 
It was nut until 18-27 that a historian, worthy of the poet, appeared in the 
person of Mr. John Lockliart, tho son-in-law of Sir Walter bcoit, and (ra- 
ther a discordant title), Editor of the London Quarterly Review. He in 
that year published a Life of Burns, both in the separate form, and as a part 
of that excellent repertory known by the title of Constables JShscdluny. 

It is only necessary to read Mr. Lockhart's Life of Burns, to be satisfied 
of his qualifications for the task, and that he has succeeded in putting 
them, after an upright and conscientious manner, to the proper use. It 
certainly appears odd, that a high Tory functionary should stand out the 
champion of the Bard who sung, 

"• A man's a man for a' that :" 

and who, because of his democratic tendencies, not only missed of public 
patronage, but moreover had long to sustain every humiliation and indirect 
persecution the local satellites of intolerance could fling upoi. him. But the 
lapse of time, and the spread of intelligence, have done much to remove 
prejudices and soften asperities; to say nothing of that independence of 
mind which always adheres to true genius, and which the circumstances 
in the poet's history naturally roused and excited in a kindred snirit. 3ir 



( iii . 

Lockliart, it will farther be observed, besides having compiled his work \ -» 
der circumstances of a general nature much more favourable to accurate 
delineation, likewise set about the task in a more philosophical manner 
than the preceding biographers. He judged for himself ; he took neither 
facts nor opinions at second-hand ; but inquired, studied, compared, and 
where doubtful, extricated the facts in the most judicious and careful man 
ner. It may be said, that that portion of the poet's mantle which invested 
his sturdiness of temper, has fallen upon the biographer, who, as the poet 
did, always thinks and speaks for himself. 

These being our sentiments of Mr. Lockhart's Life of Burns, we have 
preferred it, as by far the most suitable biographical accompaniment of the 
present edition of his works. It has been our study to insert, in this edi- 
tion, every thing hitherto published, and fit to be pubHshed, of which 
Burns was the author. The reader will find here all that is contained 
in Dr. Currie's edition of 1800, with the pieces brought to light by all the 
respectable authors who have since written or published of Burns. — The 
following general heads will show the nature and extent of the present 
work. 

i. The Life by Lockhart. 

2. The Poems, as published in the Kilmarnock and first Edinburgh edition, 

with the poet's own prefaces to these editions, and also as published 
in Dr. Currie's edition of 1800 ; having superadded the pieces since 
brought forward by Walker, Irving, Morison, Paul, and Cromek. 

3. Essay (by Dr. Currie), on Scottish Poetry, including the Poetry of 

Burns. 

4. Select Scottish Songs 9iot Burns's, upwards of 200 in number, and many 

of them having his Annotations, Historical and Critical, prefixed. 

5. Burns's Songs, collected from Johnson's Musical Museum, the larger 

work of Thomson, and from the publications of Cromek, Cunningham, 
and Chalmers, nearly 200 in number. 

6. The Correspondence, including all the Letters published by Dr. Currie, 

besides a number subsequently recovered, published by Cromek and 
others. 

The whole forming the best picture of the man and the poet, and the only 
complete edition of his writings, in o?ie work, hitherto offered to the public 
Besides a portrait of the poet, executed by an able artist, long familiar with 
the original picture by Nasmyth, there is also here presented, (an entire 
novelty), a fac-simile of the poet's handwriting. It was at one time mat- 
ter of surprise that the Ploughman should have been a man of genius and 
a poet. If any such curious persons still exist, they will of course be like- 
wise surprised to find that he was so good a penman. 



Mew York, Sept. 11, 1832. 



CONTENTS OF BURNS'S WORKS. 



OF THE LIFE. 

Page 
Cbap. I —The Poet's Birth, 1759 — Circumstances and peculiar Character of his 
Father and Mother — Hardships of his early years — Sources, such as they were, of 
his Mental Improvement — Comraenceth Love and Poetry at 16, i — ^viS 

Chap. II. — From 17 to 24 — Robert and Gilbert Burns work to their Father, as 
Labourers, at stated Wages — At rural work the Poet feared no competitor — This 
period not marked by much Mental Improvement — At Dancing-School — Pro- 
gress in Love and Poetry — At School at Kirkoswald's — Bad Company — At Ir- 
vine — Flaxdressing — Becomes there Member of a Batchelor's Club, «.« ^ ix — ^xix 

Chap. III. — The Brothers, Robert and Gilbert, become tenants of Mossgiel — 
Their incessant labour and moderate habits — The farm cold and unfertile — Not 
Prosperous — The Muse anti-calvinistical — The Poet thence involved deeply in 
local polemics, and charged with heresy — (Jurious account of these disputes — 
Early poems prompted by them — Origin of, and remarks upon the Poet's prin- 
cipal pieces — Love leads him far astray — A crisis — The Jail or the West Indies 
— The alternative, ^ ,. xx — xxxiv 

Chap. IV — The Poet gives up Mossgiel to his Brother Gilbert— Intends for Ja- 
maica — Subscription Edition of his Poems suggested to supply means of outfit— 
One of 600 copies printed at Kilmarnock, 1786 — It brings him extended repu- 
tation, and £20 — Also many very kind friends, but no patron — In these circum- 
stances, Guaging first hinted to him by his early friends, Hamilton and Aiken — 
Sayings and doings in the first year of his fame — Jamaica again in view — Plan 
desisted from because of encouragement by Dr. Blacklock to publish at Edin- 
burgh, wherein the Poet sojourns, ^,^^^ — ^ . .^^,,,.,>^>, — xxxv — \xm 

Chap. V The Poet winters in Edinburgh, 1786-7 — By his advent, the condition 

of that city— Literary, Legal, Philosophical, Patrician, and Pedantic — is lighted 
up, as by a meteor — He is in the full tide of his fame there, and for a while ca- 
ressed by the fashionable — What happens to him generally in that new world, 
and his behaviour under the varying and very trying circumstances — The tavern 
life then greatly followed — The Poet tempted beyond all former experience by 
bacchanals of every degree — His conversational talent universally admitted, as 
not the least of his talents— The Ladies like to be carried off their feet by it, 
while the philosophers hardly keep theirs — Edition of 1500 copies by Creech, 
which yields much money to the Poet — Resolves to visit the classic scenes of his 
own country — Assailed with thick-coming visions of a reflux to bear him back 
to the region of poverty and seclusion, ^^- ^,,...,„..„^^ Ixiv — Ixxi 

Chap. VI — Makes three several pilgrimages in Caledonia — Lands from the first 
of these, after an absence of six months, amongst his friends in the '' Auld Clay 
Biggin" — Finds honour in his own country — Falls in with many kind friends 
during those pilgrimages, and is familiar with the great, but never secures one 
effective patron — Anecdotes and Sketches — Lingers in Edinburgh amidst the 
fleshpots, winter 1787-8 — Upset in a hackney coach, which produces a bruised 
limb, and mournful musings for six weeks — is enrolled in the Excise — Another 
crisis, in which the Poet finds it necessary to implore even his friend Mrs. Dunlop 
not to desert him — Growls over his publisher, but after settluig with him leaves 
Edinburgh with £500 — Steps towards a more regular life, ...^..^.^^^^^^ Ixii — Ixxr 

Chap. VII. — Marries — Announcements, (apologetical,) of the event — Remarks — 
Becomes (1788) Farmer at Elliesland, on the Nith, in a romantic vicinity, six 



ri CONTENTS. 

Pagt 
miles from Dumfnes — The Bluse wakeful as ever, while the Poet maintains a 
varied and extensive literary correspondence with all and sundry — Remarks upon 
the correspondence — Sketch of his person and habits at this period by a brotner 
poet, who shews cause against success in farming — The untoward conjunction of 
Gauger to Farmer — The notice of the squirearchy, and the calls of admiring 
visitors, lead too uniformly to the ultra convivial life— Leaves Elliesland (1791) 
to be exciseman in the town of Dumfries, . . .^ Ixxxii— 3t| 

Chaf. VIII — Is more beset in town than country — His early biographers, (Dr. 
Currie not excepted), have coloured too darkly under that head — It is not correct 
to speak of the Poet as having sunk into a toper, or a solitary drinker, or of his 
revels as other than occasional, or of their having interfered with the punctual 
discharge of his official ckities — He is shown to have been the affectionate and be- 
loved husband, although passing follies imputed ; and the constant and most as- 
siduous instructor of his children— Impulses of the French Revolution — Symp- 
toms of fraternizing — The attention of his official superiors is called to them — 
Practically no blow is inflicted, only the bad name — Interesting details of this pe- 
riod — Gives his wliole soul to song making — Preference in that for his native 
dialect, with the other attendant facts, as to that portion of his immortal lays, . „ xci cia 

Chap. IX The Poet's mortal period approaches— His peculiar temperament — 

Symptoms of premature old age — These not diminished by narrow circumstances 
Chagrin from neglect, and death of a Daughter — The Poet misses public pa- 
tronage : and even the fair fruits of his own genius— the appropriation of which 
is debated for the casuists who yielded to him merely the shell— His magnani- 
mity when death is at hand ; his interviews, conveisations, and addresses as a 
dying man--Dies, 21st July 179o — Public funer;.], at which many attend, and 
amongst the rest the future Premier of England, wlio had steadily refused to ac- 
knowledge the Poet, living — His family munificently provided for by the public 
—Analysis of character — His integrity, religious state, and genius — Strictures 
upon him and his writings by Scott, Campbell, Byron, and others, cx-..cxxxif 

Verses on the death of Burns, by Mr. Roscoe of liverpool, ^ cxxxv 

Character oi' Burns and his Writings, by Mrs. RiddeU of Glenriddell, cxxxvii 

Preface to the First Edition jf Burns's Poems, printed in Kilmarnock, ,,<»,.,..^.^.. clxiii 

0#d»cat)on to the (Caledonia,' Hunt, prefixed to the Edinburgh Edition, ..,,^.^ dzt 



vH 



CONTENTS OF THE POEMS 



I 



A Bards Epitap.i, «~ 
Vidress to a H«i£jgis, 
o a Lady, 
to a Louse, 
to a Mouse,— 



to Colonel de Peyster, . 

to Kdinburgh, . 

to General Demourier, 

to J. Syine,. 

to Mr. Mitchell, 



to Mr. William Tytler, 
to Robert Graham, Esq. 

to the Deil,^.,— <^ ^ 

to the Owl, 



:o the Shade of Thomson, -,.w 
to the Scotch Representatives,- 

to the Toothache, ,.^,.^,-^ 

to the Unco Guid, 
\ Oedicaiion to Gavin Hamilton, 
A Dream (a Birth-day Ode to the King), 
A Grace before Dinner,, 
Answer to a Tax Surveyor, 
A Prayer in Piospect of Death, 
in Anguish, ^,.,^,.^,^^ 

\ Sketch, — ^ .^^^ 

A Winter Night,— ,>,,, . 

A Vision,^ ^ ,^ 



Death and Dr Hornbook, 

Despondency, an Ode, — 

a Hymn, ^ 



Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson, 
on William Creech,, 
on Peg Nicolson, 
Tam Samson, ^ 
on the Year 1788 



Epistle to a Voung Friend, 
to Captain Riddel, 



to Davie, a Brother Poet (1) 
to Davie, a Brother Poet (2) 
to Gavin Hamilton 

to J. Lapraik, a Scots Poet,,. ,,,, 43, 45 

to J. Rankin with Poems, ,,«.,«.,-.,~,,,,,,,.,. 

to Mr. Macadam, , ,,,^^>,.,,, ,.,.. 

to Terraughty 

to the Reverend Mr. M'Math, 
to W. S. Ochiltree, 
Epitaph on a Friend, 



on a Noisy Polemic, 
on a Ruling Elder,, 



on Gavin Hamilton, ~ 
on R. Aitken, ,,. 
on the Poet's Father, 
on Wee Johnny, ~,~, 
Extempore Effusions in the Court of Session, 



on Falsehood,- 
to a Friend, 

to Mr. Syme, 

Refusal to Dine, . 
when at Carlisle, . 



Halloween, 
Holy Fair, . 



Impromptu, a Lady's Birth-day, 

Juseription, Altar of Independence,, 



Lament of Queen Mary, , 



50 



Lament for James Earl of Giencairn,— „_ 

for a Scotch Bard gone to the West Indies, 
Lines left at a Friend's House, — «.,--«^ 

left at Carron, „„„— 

left at Friar's Carso Hermicage, ,,, „ 

left at Taymoutli Inn, „ 

on a Posthumous Child, 

on a Wounded Hare, . 

on Briiar Water, ,,. 

on Captain Grose, . 

on Miss CruikshanKs,, 

on Religion, 

on Sensibility, to Mrs. Dunlop, „„« 

on Scaring some Water-fowl in Loch 

on the Death of J. Maeleod, „— ...^^ 

on the Fall of Fyers 

on the Highlands, 

on William Smellie,. 

to a Mountain Daisy,, 

to an Offended Friend, 

to an Old Sweetheart svith his Poems 

to a Voung Lady with Books, „ 

to Mi-s L. with Beattie's Poems,,,,,,,. 

to Robert Graham, 

to Ruin, 

to Sir John Whitefoord, „, 

Man was Made to Mourn, a Dirge, ~,,^ — 

Monody on a Capricious Female and Epitaph, 



Pagt 

^ 52 



Poor Maillie's Elegy, . 

Scotch Drink,, 

Sonnet on the Death of Mr. Riddel, 

Stanzas on Death, 

Strathallan's Lament, 



Tam o' Shanter, „„,. „ 

Tam Samson's Elegy and Epitaph, „„,, ™„ 

The Auld Farmer's New-Year's Salutation to liis 
Mare Maggie, 

Brigs o' Ayr, 

Calf, 

Cotter's Saturday Night, 

Death and Dying Words of Poor Maillie, ~ 

First Psalm, 

First Six Verses of 90th Psalm, 

Henpecked Husband, 

Jolly Beggars, 

Kirk's Alarm, 



Lament on a Fnend'i 

Newspaper, 

Ordination, 

Twa Dogs, 

Twa Herds 

Whistle, ~„, 

Vision, „ 

Vowels, a Tale, — 



Love Disapponitment, 



Winter, a Dirge,, 



40 
37 

68 
48 
58 
59 

H 
57 
56 
56 
78 
76 
58 
57 
59 
76 
71 
58 
74 
fi'i 
75 
39 
75 
39 
52 

35 

72 

71 



New- Year's Day, a Sketch, 

Ode on a Miserly Character,,,,,.— ,.,„~—.—.„ . 49 

on my Early Days, „,.,-,„„, „„ 61 

on Pastoral Poetrv, „„„„,„,, 70 

on the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair, „„ 61 

to Liberty, . ^ . , 77 



-^ 16 

3 

72 
37 
69 



Essay on Scottish Poetry (Dr. Currie), 



84-^7 



CONTENTS OF THE SELECT SCOTTISH SONGa 



Andrew and his Cu .ty Gun,- 
linnie Lawrie, 



As I went out in a May Morning, ^ 

Auld Rob Morris, ^. ^^^^^ 

Robin Gray, ^-v-- .-,- 

Aye wrtuliiii' O, — ~- 

A waukrife Minny, ^^^ ^^w-,.-,,^ 



Awa Whigs Awa, 



Beds of SweBt Roses, 

Bess tlie Gai l<.ie„ 



Page. 

148 
^ 17.3 
_ 187 
_ 17« 
^ 137 
^ 1.56 
_ M3 
-^ 184 



Bessy Bell anl Mary Gray 
Bide ye Yet (? sets). 



Blink o'er tin Burn Sweet Betty, 
Blue Bonnet? over the Border,, 
Bonnie Barbara Allan, 



Dundee, v^.— -,-*^- 
Mary Hay, 

Came ye o'er frae France, 
Carle an' the King come, 
Cauld Kail in Aberdeen,. 
Ca' the Ewes to the Knowes, 
Charlie i.s my DarUng, — ^^ 
Clout the Cau'dron, — 
Cock pen. 

Come imder my Plaidie,. 
Cumin' thro' the Rye, 

Corn Rigs are Bonnie, ^ 

Craii Town (I ram Coram Dago), 
Cromlei's Lilt, — 

Dinna think Bonnie Lassie,, 
Donald Coupar, 
Dawn the Burn Davie,- 
Dumbarton's Drums, ^* 
Dusty Miller, 



\:>0 
lol 
178 
131' 
114 
1,56 
17s 
151 
157 

182 
157 
\<29 
146 
152 
105 
145 
15H 
I 56 
12H 
153 
117 

1.57 
160 
114 
127 
158 



Ettrick Banks, <,~— —.-,-.,— ^ 



178 



Fair Annie of Lochroyan, 

Fairly Shot of Her, 

False" Love and hae ye Played Me This, . 

Farewell to .Ayrshire, 

Fare ye weel my Auld Wife, 
For Lack o' Gold She's left me, -,, 
For the Sake o* Somebody, ~.-.~— .^ 
Fye gar rul) her o'er wi' Straw,~~., 

Gala Water,- 



Get up and Bar the Door O, 

Go to Berwick Johnie, . 

Gude Vill Comes and Gude Vill Goes,- 



Hame never cam' He, 

Haud awa frae me Donald, 

Hap and row the Feetie o't. 

Here's a Health to them that's awa,— — 

Hey ca' through. 

Highland Laddie, , 

Hooly and Fairlie, 

Hugliie Graham, 

I had a Horse and I had nae mair, — 

I'm o'er Young to Marry Yet, 

I'll never leave Ye, 

I loo'd nae a Laddie but ane, 

Jenny Dang the Weaver, 

If ye'll be mv Dawtie and sit on my Flaid, 

in the Garb of Old Gaul,- 



Jockev said to Jenny, 
John Hay's Bonnie Lassie, 

John o' Badenyon, ^ 

Johnny Cope, ——.——. 

Johnny Faa, 



Johnny's Gray Breeks, . 
Jumpin John, 



Kate of Aberdeen,- 

Kathrine Osie, 



Keej) the Country Bonnie Lassie, 

Kelvin Grove, 

Kenmure's on and av;a Willie, 

Killycrankie (the Battle), 

Killycrankie O (the Braes), 
Kind Robin Iocs me, . 

Lady Mary Ann,- 

Lass gin ye Loe me tell me now, 

Lassie lie near me, 

Lewis Gordon, 

Little wat ye wha's comin', 

Lochaber tio more, — 

Lochnagar, 

Logan Braes, (double set),- 

Logie o' Buchan,— ~w« 

Lord Ronald, my Son, 

Low down in the Broom, — — .. 



Macpherson's Rant, . 

Maggie Lauder, 

Mary's Dream, 

Mary Scot, the Flower o' Yarrow, 

Merry hae 1 been Teething a Heckle, 

Mill, Mill, O, 

My Auld Man, — . — ,.— — 

My Dearie, if thou Die,, 

My Jo Janet, — 

M y Lo\e she's but a Lassie yet, ———.,—————. 

My Love's in Germanie, — — — 

My Mither's aye Glowrin o'er me,— 

My Native Caledonia, — 

Mv only Joe and Dearie O, . 

My Wife's a Wanton Wee Thing, 

My Wife has taen the Gee, — — 



Pagn. 
186 
115 
144 
143 
136 
106 
.159 

107 
163 
159 
156 

185 
M7 
Ifiil 
173 

146 
165 
164 
119 

16!l 

186 
184 

15') 
155 
149 
164 



121 
112 
124 
164 
128 
165 
US 
1/3 
165 
174 
1^2 
167 
153 
166 
166 



Neil Gow's Farewell to Whisky O, 

O an' ye were Dead Gudeman,. 
O can ye labour Lea Young Man, 

Och hey Johnny Lad,—— ^ 

O dear Minny what shall I do, 
O merry may the Maid be. 



O on ochrio (the Widow of Glenco), 
Old King Coul,, 
Our Guidman cam' Hame at E'en, 
O'er the Muir amang the Heather, 
O'er Bogie wi' my Love,— — — »— ^ 
O Wal.\, Waly up yon Bank, 

Polwarth on the Green, 



Poverty parts Gude Company, 



Ro.5lin Castle, 
Roy's Wife, — — — . 



Sae Merry as We hae been, . 

Sandy o'er the Lea, ~- 

Saw ye Jf)hnny ( omin', — « 
Saw ye my Father, 



167 
139 
161 
160 
183 
119 
168 
161 
150 
153 
128 

185 
16.S 

103 

170 

116 
165 
103 

174 



CONTEJJTS. 



IX 




hav/ ye nae my Pegny, 

She r()Sf> and let ine in, 

Stper her up and haud her gaun 
Stre])hon and Lydia 
Symon Brodie, 

Tak' your Auld Cloan about you 
Tarn o' the Balloch 

Tarry Woo, ,.,^ 

The Auld Mans Mare's dead, 
Tne Auld Wife ayont the Fire, 
The Battle o' Sherra-muir, 
The Ranks o' the Tweed. ^^. 
The Beds o' Sweet Roses, -,. 

The Birks of Invermav, ^--^^ 

The Blythesome Bridal, ..w-,^*-^ 
The Blathrie o't. 
The Boatie rovws. 

The Bob of Dumblane, 

The bonnie brucket Lassie, 

The bonnie Lass o' Branksome, 

The bonnie Lass that made the Bed to me,. 

The Braes o' Ballendean, 

The brisk yotmg Lad, 

The Brume o' the Cowdenknowes, . 

The Bush ab>on Traquair, 

The Campbells are comin', . 
The Carle he cam' o'er the Craft, 

The Coallier's bonnie Lassie, 

The Ewie wi' the Crookit Horn,-. 
The Flowers of the Forest, 
The Flowers of Edinburgh, 

The Foray, -^,, 

The Gaberlunzie Man, 
The happy Marriage, , 
The Highland Queen, 
Tlie Jolly Beggar, -,.,.> 
The Lammie, --, 
The Landart Laird, 



The Lass of Peatie's Mill, 

The Lass o' Liviston,-,-, .>,>>.>>- 

The Last i ime I cam' o'er the Muir,. 
The Lea- Rig, ^^^^^^^...^^^^. 



The Life and Age o' Man,-.- , 

The Maid that tends the GoaU, . 

The Maltman, ^ 

The merry Men O, 

The Miller o' Dee, 

The Minstrel (Donochthead), 

The muckin' o' Geordie's t3yre. 

The Old Man's Song, 



The Poets, what Fools the're to Deave us. 

The Poesie, 

The Rock and the wee pickle Tow, 

The Soutots o' Selkirk, 

The Tailor fell thro' the Bed, 

The Turnimspike «-— — — ^-„. 

The weary Pund o' Tow, — , 

The wee, wee German Lairdie, 

The Wee Thing, 

The Wee Wifikie, 



he White Cockade, — 
The Widow, ----. 
'i'he Vellow-hair'd Laddie, 

he Young Laird and Edinburgh Katie, 

There's nae Luck about the House, 

This is no Mine Ain House, „ 

Tibbie Fowler, . 

Tibbie Dunbar,-—-. 

To Damiton Me,- 

To the Kve wi' Me, (2 sets), 

Todlin Hame, 

Tranent-Muir, 

Tullochgorum, 
' '"'"'as within a Mile o' Edinburgh iown, . 
'side (2 sets),- 

,^ ,; ana Warn a* Willie, 
Up in the Mornin' early. 



- lOG 

- 11.3 
177 
184 
175 
l.il 
125 
135 
174 
111 
132 
13:^ 
184 
1 7 
159 
187 
180 
171 
181 
181 
181 
182 
115 
142 
172 
142 
1.36 
175 
lt'9 
121 
114 
174 
109 

138 
126 



Wandering Willie, — 

Waukin' o' the Fauld, 

We're a' Nid Noddin, 

Were nae my Heart Light I wad Die, 

Willie was a Wanton Wag, 

Woo'd and Married and a'. 



182 
120 
167 
124 
lt)9 
140 



CONTENTS OF BURNS'S SONGS. 



Aaieu, a Heart-warm fond Adieu, 
Ae fond Kiss and then we Sever, — 
Afton Water, 



Again rejoicing Nature sees 

A Highland L:td my Love was born 

Amang the Trees where humming Bee: 

A Man's a Man for a' that,, 

Anna, -, 



Annie, 

A red red Ro^e, 

A R.>se Hud by my early Walk, 

A Southland Jennie, 

Auld Lang Sync,, 

Auld Rob Morris, 

Bessy and her Spinning-Wheel, — 
Behold the hour the Hoat arrives, . 
Beware of Bonnie Ann, — — .-.v-— . 
Beyond thee. Dearie,- 
BIythe hae I been on yon Hill, 

BIythe was She, 

Bonnie Bell,——.- ,— ^— .— 

Jean, -.-- — , — ,——.—— 




Leslev, — . 



Wee rhing, 
druce at Bannockburn, 



Caledonia— (their Groves o' Sweet Myrtle),- 
Can'st thou leave me thus, Katy, 



Ca' the Ewes,- 
Chioe. 



Reply, 



— 191 

191 
191 
191 
192 

192 
193 
192 
193 
193 
193 
194 
194 
194 
194 
195 

195 
195 
196 
195 
196 



Chloris,„ 

Come let me take Thee to my Breast,. 

Contented wi' Little, — — — — 

Country Lassie, , 

Craigieburn-wood, — . 

Dainty Davie,- 
Deluded Swain, 
Does haughty Gaul,- 
Down the Burn Da\ ' 
Duncan Gray,— — 

Evan Banks, 



Page. 
197 
197 

197 
197 
198 
193 



Fair Eliza,————— — 

Fairest Maid on Devon Hanks,. 

Fate gave the Word, 

For the Sake o' Somebody, 

Forlorn my Love, 

From thee Eliza,— 



198 
198 
99 
99 
199 



900 
200 
200 
200 
2(/l 
201 



Gala- Water, - 
Gloomy December, —. 
Green grow the Rashes O,— 
Gudewife count ihe Lawin',- 



, 201 

201 
2 2 

202 



Had I a Cave on some Wild distant Shore, - .— 203 

Hands'MTie Nell, —- ~ ,— 202 

Her flowing Locks, — 

Here's a health to Ane I loe dear, — 
to Them that's awa. 



CONTENTS. 



Hrrc's a Bottle and an Hontst Friend, 
llii,'l\laii<l Harry, 
Hi<;)ilaml Mary, 



How Cruel are the Parents 

How lang and dreary is the Night, 

I am a Son of Mars. 

Jamie come tr> me, r^-^,,^.^^ 

i.reamM I lay where Flowers were springing 
I'll ave ca' in by yon Town,. 
I'm o'er Voung to Marry yet. 
It is nae Jean thy bonnie Face,. 
Jockey's ta'en the Parting Ki>s, -v^.-^ 
Jo!in Anderson my jo, 
John Barleycorn, ^^ 



Page. 

2(14 
20.3 
_ 203 
204 
204 



20.5 
_ 206 
^ 205 
2l),5 
205 
206 

206 

-^ 207 
^^ 206 



Last May a braw Wooer cam' down the Lang Glen, 208 

Lassie w'i' the Lint-white Locks, 

Lay thy Loof in mine Lass,^-. 

Let not a Woman e'er complain, 

Logan Braes, 

Long, long the Night, 

Lord Gregory, 

Lord Daer,^.^ 



208 
208 
209 
209 
2(19 
209 
210 



Macpherson's Farewell, — 
"laria's Dwelling, 



Mark yonder Pomp of costly Fashion, . 
Mary Morison, 
Mego' the Mill, 
My Bonnie Mary, 



.^ 210 

210 

s;ii 

211 



Mv Heart's in the Highlands, ^^ 

My Lady's Gown there's Gairs upon't. 

My Nannie's awa, 

Mv Nannie O. , ^ 



My Peggy's Face my Peggy's Form, 
My Spouse Nancy, 
My Wife's a winsome Wee Thing, .^^ 
Musing on the Roaring Ocean, 



Naebody, 
Nancv, 



^ 211 

^ 212 
212 
2I^i 
212 
213 
25 
215 
214 
211 



Now "Banks and Braes are clad in Green, ^ 
Now Spring has clad the Grove in Green,^^ 
Now wesllin Winds and slaughtering Guns, 

O' a' the airts the Wind can blaw, 

O ay my Wife she dang me, 

O bonnie is yon Rosy Brier, — 

O for Ane and Twentie Tarn, 

O gin mv Love were yon Red Rose, . 

O leave Novclles ye Mauchlin Belles, 

O let me m this ae Night, 

O Love will venture in, ~ 

O May, thy Morn, 



On a Bank of Flowers, ^^ 

0n Cessnock Bank, 

On the Seas and far away, 

Open ihe Door to me O, 

O Philly happy be that day, 

O stay sweet warbling Woodlark, 

O wat ye Wha's in yon To ^n, -w, 

O were \ on Parnassus Hill, 

O wert Thou in the Cauld Blast,- 

O wlia is She that Loes me,. 

Out over the Forth, ^~, 



214 
214 
215 
214 
215 

215 
216 
216 
216 
217 
217 
217 
218 
218 
219 
218 
219 
219 
220 
22(1 
220 
221 
216 
216 
216 



Peggv Alison, ^ — ^.-^^^ 

Phillis tlie Fair, ^ — ^ 

Powers Celestial whose protection, 
I'uirtith Cauld,,..-. — t^^-^^^ 



^ — .^...^.^ 221 

, 222 

222 

..^...,^ 222 



Raving Winds around her blowmg,,. 



Saw ye ought o' Captain Grose, 

Scroggum,^,,,. .^^^..^^^ 

She's Fair and She's Fause, . 

She says she Loes me best of a'. 

Sic a Wife as Willie had. 

Steer her up and haud her gaun, 

Sweet fa's the Eve on Craigiebiirn-wood, 



Tam Glen, 

The Auld Man, 

The Banks o' Castle Gordon, . 

o' Cree, 

o' Devon, 

o* Doon, 

o' Nith,,,- 
The Bard's Song, 
The Battle o' Sherra-Muir, 
The Big-bellied Bottle,. 
The Birks o' Aberfeldie, 
The Blue-eyed Lassie, ^ 
The bonnie Wee Thing, 
The Braes o' Ballochmyle, 
The Carle o' Kellyburn-Braes, , 
The Chevalier's Lament, 
The Day Returns, 
The Death Song, ^^ 
The Deil's awa wi' the Exciseman,. 
The Election,,,,,,,.,. — „„„„^„. 



The Gallant Weaver,, 
The Gardener, 



Rantin' Roarin' Willie. 



The Gloomy Night is gatherin' fast, 

The Heather was bloomin', „„„ 

The Highland Lassie O, „„, 

The Lad that's far awa. 

The Lass o' Ballochmyle, 

The Lass that made the Bed to me,. 

The Lazy Mist, 

The Lea- Rig, 

The Lovely Lass o' Inverness, 

The Lover's Salutation, 

The Riggs o' Harlev, 

The Soldier's Return, 

The stown Glance o' Kindness,, 

'I'he Toast, 

The Tocher for Me, 

The Woodlark, „, 

The Young Highland Rover, 

There'll never be Peace till Jamie ccrmes hame,. 

There's a Youth in this City, 

There's News Lasses, 

There was once a Day, 



This is no mine ain Lassie, 
Thou has left me ever Jamie, 
Tibbie I hae seen the Day, 
To Mary in Heaven, 
True-hearted was He, 

Wae is my Heart and the Tears in my Ee, „.„,. 

Wandering Willie, ~,,- ~.,,,.~ „„„„„, 

What can a Young Lassie do wi' an Auld Man, 

Wha is that at my Bower Door, «-,„,,,,„,~^ 

When Guildford Good, ,>.„, — .„„„„.„. 

Where are the Joys I hae met in the Morning, 
Whistle and I'll come to ye my Lad, ,.„„~.-.,„,,. 
W'llie brew'd a Peck o Maut, — 
Will Ye go to the Indies mv Mary, 
Wilt thou be my Dearie, 

Yon Wild Mossy Mountains, .^ 

Vounsj Jockev was the biythest Lad, 
N"ouiu' t'euKV, „-.,„-,^.^-.., ,„„.,-,. 



Pa/rt- 

223 
223 
223 
223 
224 
224 
224 

225 
225 
225 



225 
236 
226 
226 
227 
227 
228 
22-^ 
228 
2SS 
229 
229 
230 
2.30 
230 
231 
231 
232 
232 
232 
233 

233 
231 
234 
2.-^4 
2.35 
235 
235 
237 
236 
238 
237 
237 
236 
237 
237 
238 
2.38 
259 
240 
239 
240 

240 
240 
24(» 
241 
241 
242 
242 
242 
243 
2i2 

243 

243 

m 



CONTENTS OF THE CORRESPONDENCE. 



1783, 1784. 
Love 'setters, at 2(3, in good English, but unavail- 
To Mr. Murdoch — state of the Poet and his Opi- 
Extracts from the Scrap-book, ^ 250-2 

1786. 

To Mr. John Richmond, Edinburgh — first pub- 

To Mr. Macwhinnie, Ayr— same topic,^--^ 252 

To Mr. James Smith, Mauchline— route for Ja- 

To Mr. David Brice — same — about to become 
Poet in print — the last foolish action he is to 

To Mr. Aitken, Ayr — Authorship — Excise — a fu- 

To Mrs Dunlop— first Letter — her order for Co- 
pies — his early devotion to her ancestor. Sir W. 
Wallace, 254 

To Mrs. Stewart of Stair — introductory — hurry — 
going abroad - sends SoHgs,,-......^— -^-^^..-.^^^..-.^ 255 

From Dr Btacklock to the Rev. Mr. G. Laurie— 
with just estimate of the Poet's merits — which 
puts an end to the West India scheme, and brings 
him to Edinburgh, .^,^^^^...^,..-,^^^ — 255 

From Sir John Whitefoord — complimentary, 256 

From the Rev. Mr. G. Laurie — pressing interview 
with Dr. Blacklock — good advice, — . — ..^-...^w^, 256 

To Gavin Hamilton, Mauchline — ^from Edinburgh 
— the Poet eminent as Thomas a Kempis or 
John Bunyan — favours of the Edinburgh public, 256 

To Dr. Mackenzie, Mauchline — with the Lines on 
Lord Daer. . .^ .,_.... — ..-.^ 25? 



1787. 



Ayr- 



occurrences at 

, 257 



To Mr. John Ballantine- 

Edinburgh, ^^^^^^^ 

To Mr. VVilliam Chalmers, Ayr — the same, and 

humourously apologetical, ..^.^-.^,.^w-..^~^ 257 

To Mr. John Ballantine— Farming projects and 

farther incidents at Edinburgh., ^^. 258 

To the Earl of Eglinton— a thankful Letter, , 258 

To Mrs. Dunlop— treats of Dr. Moore and his 

Writings — critical remarks on his own — and 

upon himself at the height of popidar favour,^ 259 
To Dr. Moore — introductory — the Poet's views of 

From Dr. Moore— thinks the Poet not of the ir- 
ritabile genus — admires his love of Country and 
independent spirit, not less than his Poetical 
Beauties— sends Miss Williams Sonnet on the 
Mountain Daisy, — ,.„-»..>.-,^„v^w>.^. ^^^^^^^ 260 

To Dr. Moore — ^general character of Miss Williams' 
Poems,--..«--w,vv.-« ~^ — ~~ 260 

To Mr. John Ballantine — printing at Edinburgh, 
and getting \ih phiz done,.v.~^,~w»-^~-~w>.-^^.,*»-» 261 

FrO)!! Dr. Moore — with his View of Society— and 
other Works, .,^~.^ — . ,-^-..,-.,,..w,^,^ ,^ 261 

To ihe Earl of Glencairn— with Lines for his Pic- 

I'o the Earl of Buchan — as to Pilgrimages in Cale- 



Proceedings as to the Tombstone of Ferguss'm, 262-4 
To Mr. James Candlish, Glasgow — the Poet clings 
to Revealed Religion, leaving Spinosa — but still 

the Old Man with his deeds, . 264 

To the same — first notice of Johnson's Musical 

Museum, ^^-^^..w.-.^-.-.-.^-,- . 264 

To Mrs. Dunlop, from Edinburgh — the Bard— his 

situation and views, .^^.,.^..^ , — ^^^ — Z6i 

To the same, . ,~.^ 265 

To Dr. Moore — leaving Edinburgh for his first 

Pilgrimage, ~ — .^.^....■^..^^..^^^^^ ^ 265 

To Mrs. Dunlop — sore under her literary criti- 
cisms, w 26,5 

To the Rev. Dr. Hugh Blair— leave taking, 265 

From Dr. Blair — who notices hi.-^own claims for 
first introducing Ossian's Poems to the world — ■ 
gives the Poet, at parting, a certificate of cha- 
racter, with much good advice, both wordly and 

To Mr. William Creech — with the Elegy during 
the first Pilgrimage, 26S 

From Dr. Moore — sparing use hereafter of the 
Provincial Dialect recommended — more valua- 
ble hints also given, ^.^.^^^ 267 

To Mr. William Nicoll — the Poei's Itinerary in 
braid Scots,....^ .^.^^ 267 

From Mr. John Hutcheson, Jamaica — Poems 
excellent — but better in the English style — Scot- 
tish now becoming obsolete — dissuades from the 
West Indies — " there is no encouragement for a 
man of learning and genius there," .^^.^.^^^^^ 268 

To Mr. W. Nicoll — on arriving at home — inoraii- 
zes over the Scenes and Companions of his re- 
cent elevation — gloomily as to the future,^-..--.^ 263 

To Gavin Hamilton — occurrences of the second 
Pilgrimage, ..^.^.^^^ ..^..^...^ — 269 

To Mr. Walker, Biair-in-.\thole — the same — the 
Duke's family, ^ .^.^ ^^ 270 

To Mr. Gilbert Burns— further adventures, 270 

From Mr.Ramsay of Ochtertyre — with Inscriptions 
—Tale of Owen Cameron — hints for a Poetical 
Composition on the grand scale and other taste- 
ful and interesting matter, -^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 271-2 

From Mr. Walker, Athole-House— particulars of 
the Poet's visit there — female contrivances to 
prolong his s'ay, — ^^^^^^^■^^^^,,^,.^,^ 273 

Ftom Mr A. M. an admiring Friend returned 
from abroad — with tributary Verses, ^73 

From Mr. Ramsay to the Re . William Voung — 
introductory of the Poet, ^.^^ ^^ 274 

From the same to Dr. Hlacklock' — with thanks for 
the Poet's acquaintance and Soni>s— Anecdotes, 274 

From Mr. Murdoch — a kind Letter from an old 
Tutor, rejoicing in the fruits of the genius he 
had helped to cultivate, ^^.-^s~^ ~.-~,, 275 

From Mr. R. , from Gordon. Castle — incidents 

of the Poet's visit there, ^ . -^ 215 

From the Rev. John Skinner — prefers the Natural 
to the Classical Poet — his own Poesy — contri- 
butes to the Song-making enterprize, ^^ .^ 276 

From Mrs. Ross of Kilraivach— Gaelic airs — the 
Poet's Northern Tour,,^.v......,.,>.......,...^.^ ^^^ 277 

To Mr. Dalrymple of Orangefield— Rhymes, 278 

Fragment — Letters to Miss Chalmers, 278-81 

To Miss M an Essay on the complimentary 

To Mr. Robert Aiiislie — friendship,..,^,.^ 281 

To Mr. John Ballantine — with Song, V e BanKs 
aud Braes o' Botmie oon. vw-w-».^~v-^w~»^~~~-v~ 2S1 



XII 



CONTENTS. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 

To Pr. Moore, from the Poet — Sketch of his 
Life, ..^.,^,.^^^^ 281-6 

From Mr. Gilhert Burns, a running Commentarv 
on tlie foregoing, 286-90 

From Mr. Murdoch, as to tlie Poet's early Tui- 

From Professor Dugakl Siewart — his Sketches of 

From Mr. Gillx-rt Burns, giving history of origin 
of the principal Poems, — ^.-^ — 295-7 

From tlie same, in continuation — and Essay on 
Education of lower Classes, , ^^>> :^97-302 

r-eath and Character of Gilbert Burns, — ^ ^ 302 

The **otfs Scrap- uook, Cfarther extracts),-www^02-3 



LETTERS, 1788. 

To Mrs. Dunlop, from Edinburgh— second visit- 
bruised limb, ..^^.^^^.^.^^^.,^^.,^^ 304 

To the same — repelling insinuation as to irreli- 
gion, ._. 304 

To a Lady — upon the use of sarcasm imputed to 
him against hev,~^ ,^ 3' 4 

To Mr. Robert Cleghorn— origin of the Cheva- 
lier's Lament, -..-~-^.„,.^,v-~^~™,.-..v.. 304 

From the same, in answer — and with Farming 
opinions, ^^^^,^^^,,^^,^^. 304 

To Mr. James Smith, Avonfield — marriage pre- 
sent, . .^^^^^^ . 305 

To Mrs. Dunlop — Farming — reasons for and in- 
structions m the Excise — tart expressions, ,.,— > 305 

From the Rev, John Skinner, with " Charming 
Nancy," by a Buchan Ploughman, and other 
Songs — his own Latin poetry, ^ ^^^ 306 

To Professor Dugald Stewart— wishes at his going 
to the Continent, ^^.■,^^^^^^,^^.. ~.^w> 306 

To Mrs. Dunlop — Dryden's Virgil — likes the 
Georgics — disappointed in the ^neid, often an 
imitation of Homer — Drvden, Pope's master, 
in genius and harmony of language, ^^^-^ 307 

To Mr. Robert Ainslie— a dull Letter may be a 
kind one, . .-,^,^-,.,.,-»v....ww^~.~-^-*-^~w.» 307 

To Mrs. Dunlop— inequality of conditions, ^ 307 

To the same — first from Ellisland — his marriage, 308 

To Mr. Peter Hill, with a Ewe-milk Cheese— f 
slice of it good for indigestion of all kmds, 508 

To Mr. Robert Ainslie— friendship — the Poet'i 
suspicious temperament — his purpose to leave 
the light troops of Fiincv for the squadrons of 
heavy armed Thought- Marriiige, ~~^-~..^^.,..,^ iJ>9 

To Mr. Morrison, Wright, Maueliline— the Poet's 
new house, ^^,^.~,^^^^,..,^..^.^^^^^^.^^^„^^„^..^,.,^ f«19 

To Mr. Robert Ainslie — a ser ous Letter, --v.—,-.,^^ liO 

To Mr. George Lockhar', Glasgow — admiration 
ot certain Female beauties,..,^,,^...^ . Zl\ 

To Mrs. Dunlop — a luck-pLimv — Friar's Carse 
Hermitage and other Lines, ^ „.^ 311 

To the same — his answers to her, not P'choes — 
Marriage Anecdotes — account of his Wife — Let- 
ter writing, — ,,.^^-^«.^,„v--.^^,w.^„~^,..^v.,^,~^»^,^^ 312 

To the same — gossip of a Dinner-party- Life and 
Age of Man— religious Impressions, ^ 312 

To Robert Graham, Esq. with first Poetical Ad- 
dress,, , ^^^^..^^^.-^^^^^ 313 

To Mr. Beiigo, Engraver— estimate of the Poet's 
new neighbours — matters poeticsii, ^.^v^^w-.-^.^^..- 314 

To Miss Chalmers — complimen'ary to her — and 
explanatory of his marriage- present state and 
prospects — Songs,,,^,,.™ . „ 315 

To Mrs. Dunlup — twins— ex' Msms— verses, .^.^^^ 316 

To Mr. Peter Hill— < pinions of the Poetry of 

T o Mrs. Dunlop — the Major's present, . . 317 

To — — apologetical for the bloody and t\ rannical 

House of Stewart, . . w.. ^ 318 

To Mr James Johnson, Engraver, Edinburgh — 

with Songs and good advice for his Musical Mu- 

To Dr. Blaekiock — with Poetical Pieces and Songs 
— his Marriage and other movements, ^^^.^ ^ 319 

To Mis. Dunlop— consolatory — the Poet'.^ esti- 
mate of worldly concerns, as against the func- 
tions of the immortal soul. — Auld Lang Syne — 
and other Song's, ^^^..^^ — , — ...^^^^ , — 320 

Tr a youuc Lady, enclosing a Ballad upon her,.^ 320 



1789 



Pag'. 

To Sir John Whitefoord— thanks for his rolttntarv 

defence of the Poet, ^.^^^^^^-^^^^^...^ 32} 

From Mr. Gilbert Burns — New. Year's wishes, 32' 

To Mrs. Dunlop — the same — ajiproves of set times 
of Devotion — glowing sentiments of a Life be- 
yond the Grave, ^^^■^.^^^ . ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^-^ .^^^...^^ 321 

From the Rev. P. Carfrae— of Mylne and his 

Works, . 322 

To Dr. Moore — poetical purposes — worldly state 

of the Poet and his Friends, — .. . 322 

I o Mr. Robert Ainslie — advice and encourage- 
To Bishop Geddes — " What am 1 ?— Where I am ? 

— and for what am I destined 1"^^^^^ 324 

To Mrs. Dunlop — contr ist of high and low — 

Mylne's Poems, . ^ 324 

From William Burns, the Poet's Brother — his out- 
set and progress, ,^^.^^,^,^ ^, ^.,^ 595 

To the Rev. P. Carfrae— Mylne's Poems, 326 

lo Dr. Moore— the Bard's sufferings from the 

Death and Funeral of a sordid Female, 326 

To Mr. Peter Hill— eulogy of frugality — order for 

To Mrs. 'd 1 1 n 1 op^'k e't'ch~of Fox^ZZZZZZZZZZ 5?8 
To Mr. Cunningham — efiiisions of Friendship, ^ 328 

From Dr. Gregory— iron bound criticism , — 328 

To Mr. James Hamilton, Glasgow — consolation, 329 

To Mr. William Creech— Toothache, ^^,^..^,^. 329 

To Mr. M'Auley of Dumbarton- descriptive of 

the Poet's feelings and condition, ~,,„~ 330 

To Mr. Robert Ainslie— the .same topics, 5 

From Dr. Moore — advice — to yireserve and polish 
his lays, and to abandon the Scottish stanza and 

dialect — Zeluco, ■ 331 

To Mrs. Dunlop — low spirits — religious feelings,-- 331 
From Miss J. Little— with a poetical tribute, 532 



335 



From Mr. Cunningham — reminiscences of Fergi 



To Mr. Cunningham, in answer, -,— ^ — — „ 333 

To Mr. Dunlop) — domestic matters — Poetical Tri- 
bute from Miss L a Future State— Zeluco, 334 

From Dr. Blaekiock— a friendly Letter in Rhyme, 33 1 
To Dr. Blaekiock — a suitable answer,>.-.~~>-^~-> 335 
To Captain Riddel— the night of the Whistle, — 335 

To the same — the Scrap-book, -. — -- — 33i 

To Mr. Robert Ainslie — the word " Exciseman," 335 
To Robert Graham, Esq.^-Captaiii Grose and lo- 
cal polemics, .^ — ,^^ — . 336 

o Mrs, Dunlop — " under the miseries of a diseas- 
ed nervous system," — i -^ ^ 1 ^ 337 

To Sir John Sinclair— the Library of Dunscore,— 338 
From Captain Riddel to Sir John— on same sub- 
ject. ~ 338 



1790. 



To Gilbert Burns— the Players— -Ver.ses for them, 339 
From William Burns — at Newcastle— wants inlor- 

mation and fraternal instructions, 3.59 

To Mrs. Dunlop— the Poet Falconer— Ballads, ^ 34C 
From Mr. Cunningham— friendly notices, .—»— 341 
From Mr. Peter Hil! — " a poor rascally Gauger," 
— Borough Reform— Books — Note, with secrtts 

worth knowing, ,— —-- .— . 341 

To Mr. William Nicoli — i.ist illmss and de.ith of 

Peg Nicolson— matters theatrical— ecclesiastical 

squabbling. — Exciseman's duty, -. - -. -. - — -v.-,-.-- 342 

To Mr. Cunningham— on Letter writing— txist- 

ence — and the course of the Poet's reading — 

Deism — Scepticism, .—>-,—.-,- — — -. 343 

To Mr. Peter Hill — a large order — existence,-—— 31.) 
From William Bums, at London— his adventures 
. — hears the Calf preach at Covent Garden Cha- 

To Mrs. Dunlop— -advantages of the Union— Lord 
Chesterfield — Minor — Lounger- Man of Feel- 
ing, , — .-^v..--., — — — . 345 

From Mr. Cunningham — friendly notic'es,^ ;— 3.5 

To Dr Moore — Letter writing — Zeluco — Miss 

Williams, - - ^^ — ^ 34£ 

To Mr. Murdoch — ren wing friendly mtercourse, .'^46 
From Mr Murdoch— Death of William Burns, — 34" 
To Mr. Cunningham — Independence— Smollett's 
Ode, ..,. — ~. ,,. 541 



CONTENTS. 



xw 



Page. 
From Dr. Blacklock— a Letter in Rhyme— Dr. 
Anderson and the Bee, ~. >-.^ 348 

From Mr. Cunnino;ham— a Song for each of the 
four Seasons suggested, 349 

To Mrs. Dunlop— Birth of a Posthumous Child- 
Ode thereon, . .......— 349 

To Crawford Tait, Esq.— recommending a young 
Friend, — 349 

To • Partiaanship,......^....... 550 



1791. 

To Mr. CiKiningh»m — Elegy on Miss Burnet, ~~ 350 
To Mr. Peter Hill— Essay on Poverty, — ^..^ — .~ 351 

From A. F. Tvtler, Esq.— Tam o' Slianter, 3hl 

To Mr. Tvtler— in answer, ^ . — . 352 

To Mrs. Dunlop— broken arm— Elegy on Miss 

Burnet — a remembrance, .,^.^> ^ ^ — , 352 

To Lady Mary Constable — a Snuff-box, ^-.. . 353 

To Mrs. Graham of Fintry— Ballad on Queen 

Mary— the Poet's gratitude, 553 

From the Rev. Principal Baird — Michael Bruce,~ 353 
To Principal Baird— offering every aid for pub- 
lishing Bruce's Works, — >.., ■ 354 

To the Rev. Archibald Allison— his Essays on 

Taste, — ~^ — ^^ ,,.^>,>>.>» 554 

To Dr. Moore — Songs and Ballaus — Zeleuco — pri- _ 

vate concerns, ^>.^.w.~~~^<-.^.^■».^.^'»■...^>.> ^^^^„ 555 

To Mr. Cunningham— Song, " There'll never be 

peace till Jamie come Imme,"^^ 556 

To Mr. Dalzell, F-ctor to Lord Glencaim — the 
Poet's grief for his Loraship— his wish to attend 

the Funeral ...■■.>.,.>. >>.>,>.>. 356 

From Dr. Moore — criticises Tam o' Shanter, and 
other pieces— solicits the Poet's remarks on Ze- 
leuco— advises him to be more chary of giving 

Copies— and to use the modem English, 356 

To ^lrs■ Dunlop — a domestic occurrence — exclu- 
sive advantagt-s of humble life, ^^.^,^,>, — > — ,>, 357 
To Mr. Cunningham — in behalf of a persecuted 

Schoolmaster, ..>— .^^ ,, .-> ~ 358 

From the Earl of Buchan— crowning of Thomson's 

Bust at Ednarr^,, — ■ .-—-...^-^ 3.58 

1 o the same — in answer,^..^ ^ . 559 



559 



To Mr. Thomi« Slcan, Manchester— disappoint- 
ment — perseverance recommended — The Poet's 
Ruup, >^ ^^^^^^^^ — . "' 

From the Earl -^f Buchan— suggests Harvest-home 
for a theme to the Muse, ^ ^ 559 

To Lady E. Cunningham — condolence on the 
death of her Brother, Lord Glencaim, 360 

To Mr Robert Ain^lie— a Mind diseased, — : . 360 

From Sir Jrhn Whitefoord— Lament for Lord 
Glencaim, ^. — ,, — . — >^>>,^^^,^,>...^^ 360 

From A. F. Tytler, Esq.— the Whistle— the La- 
ment, .^.^ ,,^,^^,, . 561 

To Miss Davies — sentimental — with some hints as 
to a Radical Reform,-^... 362 



To Mrs Dunloji — with the Death-Song- 
land Air, 



-High- 



To Captain Grose — lauds Professor Dugald Stew- 
art, — — . 563 

To the same — Witch Stories of Kirk-.\lloway, — .^ 563 
"To Mrs. Dunlop — animadversions of the Board — 

malicious insinuations— a cup of kindness,,,.-..., 3^'4 
To Mr, W. Smellie— introductory of Mrs. Riddel, 364 
To Mr. W. NicoU— admiration of, and gratitude 

for sage advice, .,,„,,.,.,>~,,..,,,^,.~ 565 

To Mr. Cunningham— the Poet's Arms, 365 

'. o Mr. Clarke invitation to come to the Country, 566 

"To Mrs. Dunlop — a Platonic attachment and a j 

Ballad — Religion indispensible to make Man | 

better and happier, -.»>,... — 567 

To Mr. Cunningham — nocturnal ravings,,,,,.,. 5b7 

To Mrs. uniop— difference in Farming for one's I 

self and Farming for another, — — ^ — — . 368 

To the same — a Family Infliction— condolence, „ 569 
To the same — shortness and uncertainty of Life— i 

Rights of Woman. ,. . ,. — .„,. — ^ -, 569 

To Robert Graham, Esq.— justifies himself against 
the charge of disaffection to the British Consti- 
tution, ^^.-.^ 370 

To Mrs. Dunlop— the Poet's improved habits— al- , 



Fage. 

lusions to her suggestions for his official pn mo- 
tion, ^w. 371 

To Miss B. of York — moralizes over the chance- 
medleys of human intercourse, — ^^ — — , — .~. 571 

To Patrick Miller, Esq of Palswinton- an honest 
tribute, 57? 

To John Francis Er-kineof Mar, E-;q. — th3 Poefs 
independence of sentiment, and particularly his 
opinions as to Reform eloquently justified, „ 372-.3 

To Mr. Piobert Ainslie - Spunkie — schoolcraft 
caught by contact, — .„„„,„„.„.„. 373-4 

To Miss K delicate flattery to a Beauty, ..„„. 374 

To Lady Glencaim gratitude to her Family— 
from an independent Exciseman, ^ 374->5 

To Miss Chalmers— a curious analysis which shews 
" a Wight nearly as miserable as a Poet," ~.,~, 375 

To John M'Murdo, Esq.— out of debt, ~.,~„„., 375-6 



LETTERS, 179t, 1795, 1796. 

To the Earl of Buchan — with " Bruce's Address," 376 

To Mrs. Riddel— Dumfries Theatricals, . 576 

To a Lady — the same, -. — ,,„.„, , 576 

To Mr. the Poet's Dreams of Excise promo- 
tion and literary leisure, „,,-»-,„,,„^ 578-7 

To Mrs. Riddel-^Theatricals and lobster-coated 

To the same — gin horse routine of Excise busintss, 577 

To the same — effects of a cool reception, „„ 577 

To the same — a spice of caprice, ,,~„ 378 

To the same — firm yet conciliating, „-,-„, 578 

To John Syme, Esq. — praises of Mr. A. — Song on 

Mrs. Oswald, : 578 

To Miss in defence of his reputation — re- 
claims his MS .,. ~,- 578-^ 

To Mr CunningViam — a Mind Diseased — Religion 

necessary to Man,, „,, ,»„ 579 

To a Lady— from the Shades, . 580 

To the Earl of Glencaim— the Poet's gratitude to 

his late Brother, . ., 580 

To Dr. Anderson — his Work, the Li es of the 

Poets, . , 580 

To Mrs. Riddel— solitary confinement good to re- 
claim Sinners — Ode for Birth-day of Washing- 
ton, .„. „„„„ 381 

To Mr. James Johnson — Songs and projects for 

the Mu-eum, .„ 381 

To Mr. Miller of Dalswinton — declmes to be a re- 
gular contributor to the Poet's Corner of the 

Morninsj Chronicle, „„„„,„,.,„,„ .„-, — «~, 381 

To Mr. r.avin Hamilton — the Poet rec.mmends a 

particular regimen to him,„~ , 582 

To Mr. Samuel Clarke — penitence after exc('S<, „ 582 
To Mr. Alexander Findlater — Supervisor — " So 

much for schemes," „.^, 83 

To the Editors of the Morning Chronicle — its in- 

To Mr. W. Dunbar— New- Vear wishes, . 383 

To Miss Fontenelle — with a Proloj^ue for her be- 

i o Mrs. Dunlop— cares of the Married Life — Dum- 
fries Theatricals — Cowjier's Task — the Poet's 

I'o Mr. Heron'^oT^Hemn^^^PoTitic^ 

Dreams of Excise promotion, ,„,„~ , — ,^ 385 

To the Right Hon. W. Pitf>— m behalf or the 

Scots Distillers, , , , . . 386 

To the Magistrates of Dumfries — Free School E- 

dueation, . ^ — . — .».., 587 

To Mrs. Dunlop in London — Mr. Thomson's 

Work — acting Supervisor— New Year wishes — 



I'o Mrs. Riddel- 
sent, — . — ...^ 



-Anacharsis — the Muses still pre- 



ifflicli 



588 
588 
588 

589 



To Mrs. Dunloii 

To Mrs. R-.ddel— on Birth-day loyally, . 

To Mr. James Johnson— the Museimi — a consum- 
ing illness hangs over the Poet, ,„,.„_.„„, 

To Mr. Cunningham— from tlie Brow, Sea-bath- 
ing Quarters— sad picture, . — i , — „, 

To Mrs. Murns — from the Brow— ^strengthened — 
but total decay of appetite, ~.~- 589 

To Mrs Dunlop— a last farewell, „. — ~ — . 5SS 



589 



CONTENTS OF THE POET'*^ CORRESPONDENCE 
WITH MR. GEORGE THOMSON 



From Mr. Tnomson— soliciting the Poet's aid to 

the Select Melodies, -si 391 

The Poet's answer — frankly embarkii g in the 

From Mr. Thomson — views of eondiictini,' the 
Work— and with 1 1 Songs for New Verses,™.™ 592 

From the Poet— ^ith the " l.ca Ris;" — " My Nan- 
nie O" — " Will ye go to the Indies my Mary," 595 

From the Poe' — with " My Wife's a wanton wee 
thing"—" O saw ye bonnie Lesley," — ~- — .^^^ 595 

From the I'oet — with " Ye Banks and Braes ;ind 
Streams around the Castle o' Montgomery," 394 

From Mr. Thomson — criticisms and corrections,™ o94 

From the Poet — admits some corrections, " but 
cannot alter b<nnie Lesley" — additional Verse 
for the " Lea Pug." 595 

From the Poet — with " Auld Rob Morris" and 
" Duncan Gray,".,.<.^„,,™;~-,-,™~v^.™™v-^^„^.~,~ 595 

From the Poet — with " Foortith Caidd" and 
•« Galla Water,"^™^™™™^™.™.™^™.,™.™™™™, 595 

From Mr. Thomson- laudatory for favours re- 
ceived—details the plan of his Work — P. S. from 
the Honourable A. Erskine — a brother Poet 
and contributor, .^ 396 

From the Poet— approves of the details — offers 
matter anecdotic— the Song " Lord Gregory"— 
En,i,dish and Scots seis of it, -w-™™^,.,^., 396-7 

From the Poet— with " Wandering Willie," ^,~^ 397 

From the Poet — " Open the Door to me O,"^^^^^ 597 

From the Poet — " True-hearted was he,"™-^™™~ 397 

From Mr homson — with complete list of Songs, 
and farther details of the Work, .™^„ 597-8 

From the Poet — with " The Soldier's return"— 
" Meg o' tlie Mill," w-- 598 

From the Poet — S ng making his hobby— offers 
valuable hints for enriching and improving the 
Work, 598-9 

From Mr. Thomson— m answer, ™~^..-,™~^~ 399 

From the Poet -fartlier hints and critical remarks 
— sends Song on a celebrated Toast to suit 
Tune, " Bonnie Dundee," ™-,— ..^ ™~™ 599 

From the Poet — with " The last time I came o'er 

From Mr. Thomson — excuses hi-; taste as against 

From the Poet — dogmatically set against altering, 400 

i he Poet to Mr. Thomson — Fraser the Hautboy 
Plavcr — Tune and Song, " The Quaker's Wife" 
— "'Blythe hae I been on yon Hill," 10 -1 

The same — mad aml;ition — "Logan Braes" — Frag- 
ment from VVitherspoon's Collection — " O gin 
my lo\e were yon Red Rose " ^..^^^^.^^^,^^,.^,^^^^^ 401 

Mr Thomson — m answer — a change of Partners in 
the Work, ™™-™ 401 

The Poet to Mr Thomson— Tune and Air of 
" Bonnie Jean" — the Poet's Heroines, . 402 

The same — a remittance acknowledged— " Flow- 
ers of the Forest'' — the > uthoress — Pinkerton's 
Ancient Ballads— prophecies, — v.,^.,^-.^™,™^™., — 402 

Mr. Thomson to the Poet — \irs waiting the Mu- 

The Poet to Mr. Thomson — Tune, ' Robin A- 
dair"— " Phillis the Fair" to it—" Cauld Kail 

From Mr. Thomson— grateful for the Poet's " va- 
lued Epistles" — wants Verses for " Down the 
burn Davie" — mentions Drawings for the Work, 403 

Froin the Poet— Tune '■ Robin Adair" again— 
wjuils " Haa 1 a Cave" ton — Gaelic origin of the 
Tune -,^~~«~v r^^^^^^^^ — ^ 104 



From the Poet — with New Song to '• Allan Wa- 

From the same — with Song " Whistle and I'll 
come to you, m v Lad," and " Phillis the Fair," 
to the " Muckin' o' Geordie's byre," 401 

From the same — " Cauld Kail" — a Gloamin' Shot 
at the Muses, .^,.^^^^^^^, 405 

From the same — " Dainty Davie" — four lines of 
Song and four of Chorus, .j™™^..™™^,.-,^.-^.,™™ 405 

From Mr. 'Jhomson — jirofv'se acknowledgments 
for manv favours,.™., — -,v.,,,-,,^~~.,,~.~™ 405 

From the "Poet— Peter Pindar—'- Scots wha hae 
wi Wallace bled" — " So may God defend the 
cause of truth and liberty as he did thiat day,"™ 4fli 

From the same- with Song " Behold the hour the 
Boat arrives," to the Highland Air "Orangaoil," 406 

From Mr. Thomson — " Bruce's Address" — the Air 
" Len'is Gordon" better for it than " Hey tuttie 
tatie" — verbal criticisms, — ™,™™ 406 

From the Poet — additional Verses to " Dainty 
Davie" — " Through the wood, Laddie" — " Cow- 
den-knowes" — " Laddie lie near me" — the Poet's 
form of Song making—" Gill Morrice" — " High- 
land Laddie"—" Auld Sir Simeon" — " Fee him 
Fathei" — " There's nae luck about the House" 
— the finest of Love Ballads, " Saw ye my Fa- 
ther" — " odiin hame" — sends " Auld Lang 
Syne" — farther notices of other Songs snd Bal- 

From the Poet— rejects the verba) criticism on the 
Ode, " Bruce's Address," ™™-~.-.<»*.-, ~. 408 

From Mr. Thomson — Strictures on the Poet's no- 
tices of the above Songs — again nibbling at the 
Ode, ™™ . — ■ — ^ 409 

From the Poet—" The Ode pleases me so much I 



Where are the 



409 



cannot alter it" — sends Song ' 
Joys I hae n-.et in the mornin', 
Froni the Poet— sends " Deluded Swain" and 
" Raving Winds around her blowing" — Airs 
and Songs, to adopt or reject — differences of 

From the same — " Thine arn I my FaitMul Fair" 
— to the " Quaker';, Wife," which is just the 

Gaelic Air " Liggeram cosh," ^ ~™™.™ 410 

Fri m Mr. Thomson — in answer, — ™™™™™vw,v.™, 410 

From the Poet — Song to " My Jo Ja et," 410 

From Mr. Thomson — proposed conference — Re- 
marks on Drawings and Songs, ^™-~w-™™ 410 

From the Pott — same subjects— Plcyel — a detenu 
— whenbv hinderance ot the Work — -Song " The 

Banks of Cree," 411 

From the same-" The auspicious period preg- 
nant with the happiness of Millions"— Inscri])- 
tion on a Copy of the Work presented to Miss 

Graham of Fintn,', s™.™™ -<.~ 411 

From Mr. Thom.^oh in answer, ^ — .,™™.™v.™, 411 

From the Poet — wiih Song " On the Seas and far 

From Mr. Thomson— criticises that Song severely, 412 

From the Poet— withdrawing it—" making a Song 
is like be^'Ctling a Son" — sends " Ca' the yewes 
to the ki'owcs," ~™™™™ ™ 41:2 

From the same — Irish Air — sends Song to it " Sa 
flaxen were her ringlets" — Poet's taste in Music 
like Frederic of Prussia's — has begun " O let me 
in this ae night" — Epigram, ™™™™, ™~- 412 

From Mr. Thomson — profuse of acknowledg- 

From the san.e — Pelcr Pindar's ia>k ccmpkicd— 
RiLson's Collection— dressing up of Old Songs, i 13 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 

t^m thfe » cet — " Craigie-bum Wood" and the 
heroine— R^^cipe for Song making — Song " Saw 
ye my Phely"— " The Posie" — " Donochthead" 
not the Poet's — " Whistle o'er the lave o't" his 
— so is " Blvthe was she" — sends Song " How 
lang and dreary is the night" — " Let not Wo- 
man e'er complain" — " Sleep'st thou" — East 
Indian Air— S'lag " The Auld Man," ^ — 414 

From Mr. Thomson — in acknowledgment, and 
with far her feommissions, y,-^, 415 

From the Poet thanks for Hitson— Songof Chlo- 
ris — Love, Conjugal and Platonic — " Chloe" — 
" Lassie wi' the lint-white locks"—" Maria's 
dwelling" — " Banks and Braes o' bonnie Doon" 
— Recipe to make a Scots Tune — humble 'a- 
quest for a Copy of the Work to give to a fe- 
male friend, .^^ — ., --^ 416-17 

From Mr. Thomson— in answer — criticisms — sends 
three Copies and as welcome to 20 as to a pinch 
ofsnuff,—^ . 417 

From the Poet— Duet completed — sends Songs 
" O Philly happy be that day" — " Contented 
wi' little"-" Canst thou leave me thus my 
Katy" — Remarks on Songs and the Stock and 

From Mr. Thomson— modest acknowledgments — 

Pictures for the Work, —-v.^,^,,..,^ ^ 419 

From the Poet— with Song " Naimie's awa"— Pic- 

From the same — originality a coy feature in 
composition — sends " A man's a man for a' 
that"— which shows that Song making is not 
confined to lo\'e and wine — new set of " Crai- 
gie-burn Wood," — ^ — » — ~...,.^.>r>^w.~r^ . 419 

From Mr. Thomson — in acknowledgment, ,....,.... — 419 

From the Poet— with, " O let me i.i this ae Night," 
and Answer, -^,<-„^«-..-.,„^ , ...,M«e>~ 420 

From the same — abuse of sweet Ecolefechan— sir, 
" We'll g iiig nae inair to yn Town," i> wortliy 

From Mt' TiiUinBoii — in a isiww. *-—>««, ^.-.—-.».^ 4(^ 



liigi 
From the I'oet — wit! four Songs, 1 he A'ood 
lark"—" Long, long the Night"—** '! heirgroves 
o sweet Myriles" — " 'Twas na her bonnie blue 

Een was mv ruin, > »., 426 

From Mr. Thomson — acknowledgments — jiictures 

for the work, , . ^ — , 420-1 

From the Poet— with two Songs, " How cruel are 
the Parents" — " Mark yonder Pomp" — adds, 
♦• Your Tailor could not be more punctual,".,^^ 42> 
From the same — acknowledgment of a present,-.,^ 421 
From Mr. Thomson — Clarke's Air to Mallet's Bal« 

lad of " William and Margaret," ^ 421 

From *he Poet — with four Songs ajid Verses. 
" O Whistle and I'll come to ye, iny Lad" — " 6 
this is no my ain Lassiie" — " Now" Spring has 
clad the Grove in Green"—" O bonnie was yon 
rosy Brier," — Inscription on his Poems present- 
ed to a young Lady, -..-v-,.,.^,^..-,^,.^.,,,.^,v.„^.^^v<~w,^ 422 

From Mr. Thomson — in acknowledgment, ^ 422 

From the Poet — with English Song, " Forlorn, 

From the same — with Song, " Last May a bra' 
Wooer cam' down the lang Glen,"— a Frag- 
ment, .w,.-,^,^,..-^.,.^-^-,-^,,...,-,.^^^,^,™ ^ 423 

From Mr. Thomson — in answer, .^ , 423 

From the samr — after an awful pause, 423 

From the Poet — ackviowledges a Present to Mrs 
B — sends Song, " Hey for a Lass wi' a Toch- 



From Mr. Thomson- 



-m answer. 



424 

■12^ 



From the Poet — health has deserted him, not the 

From Mr. Thomson— in answer,-,.^,^^^- ^ 424 

From the Poet-— with Song, " Here's a heal h to 

them that's awa." ^ .,-,^,^„..,,^ 125 

From the sam&— announces his purpose to revise 

all his Songs. ^^^ : .^.,.,^^ ^ 125 

F»'«nn the same— at Sea-bathing— depressed and in 

ettreinitv, -, ---.-r-- - 4ff 

F\X Ml. Thotr,«)n-x.with a Remittanee,-— ~-. 42fl 



JLIFli 



OF 



ROBERT BURNS. 



CHAPTER I. 

Contents. — The Poefs Birth, 1759 — Ch cnmstances and peculiar Character of his Father 
and Mother — Hardships of his Early Years — Sources, such as they were^ ofhisMentcu 
Improvement — Commenceth Love and Poetry at 1 6. 



" My father was a farmer upon the Carrick Border, 
And soberly he brought ine up in decency and order." 

Robert Burns was born on the 25th of January ] 759, in a clay-built 
cottage, about two miles to the south of the town of Ayr, and in the im- 
mediate vicinity of the Kirk of AUoway, and tlie " Auld Brig o' Doon." 
About a week afterwards, part of the frail dwelling, which his father had 
constructed with his own hands, gave way at midnight ; and the infant 
poet and his mother were carried through the storm, to the shelter of a 
neighbouring hovel. The father, William Burnes or Burness, (for so he 
spelt his name), was the son of a farmer in Kincardineshire, whence he re- 
moved at 19 years of age, in consequence of domestic embarrassments. 
The farm on which the family lived, formed part of the estate forfeited, 
in consequence of the rebellion of 1715, by the noble house of Keith 
Marischall ; and the poet took pleasure in saying, that his humble ances- 
tors shared the principles and the fall of their chiefs. Indeed, after Wil- 
liam Burnes settled in the west of Scotland, there prevailed a vague no- 
tion that he himself had been out in the insurrection of 1745-6 ; but though 
Robert would fain have interpreted his father's silence in favour of a tale 
which flattered his imagination, his brother Gilbert always treated it as a 
mere fiction, and such it was, Gilbert found among his father's papers a 
certificate of the minister of his native parish, testifying that " the bearer, 
William Burnes, had no hand in the late wicked rebellion." It is easy to 
fiuppose that when any obsc'ire northern stranger fixed himself in those 
days in the Low Country, such rumours were likely enough to be circu- 
ted concerning him 



il LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

William Burnes laboured for some years in the neighbourhood of Edin- 
burgh as a gardener, and then found his way into Ayrshire. At the time 
when Robert was born, he was gardener and overseer to a gentleman of 
small estate, Mr. Ferguson of Doonholm ; but resided on a few acres of 
land, which he had on lease from another proprietor, and where he had 
originally intended to establish himself as a nurseryman. He married 
Agnes Brown in December 1757, and the poet was their first-born. Wil- 
liam Burnes seems to have been, in his humble station, a man eminently 
entitled to respect. He had received the ordinary learning of a Scottish 
parish school, and profited largely both by that and by his own experience 
in the world. " I have met with few," (said the poet, after he had him- 
self seen a good deal of mankind), •' who understood men, their manners, 
and their ways, equal to my father." He was a strictly religious man. 
There exists in his handwriting a little manual of theology, in the form 
of a dialogue, which he drew up for the use of his children, and from 
which it appears that he had adopted more of the Arminian than of the 
Calvinistic doctnne ; a circumstance not to be wondered at, when we con- 
sider that he had been educated in a district which was never numbered 
among the strongholds of the Presbyterian church. The affectionate re- 
verence with which his children ever regarded him, is attested by all who 
have described him as he appeared in his domestic circle ; but there needs 
no evidence beside that of the poet himself, who has painted, in colours 
that will never fade, " the saint, the father, and the husband," of T/ie 
Cottars Saturday Night. 

Agnes Brown, the wife of this good man, is described as " a very sagaci- 
ous woman, without any appearance of forwardness, or awkwardness of man- 
ner;" and it seems thai, in features, and, as he grew up, in general address, 
the poet resemblcvlher more than his father. ^She had an inexhaustible store 
of ballads and traditionary tales, and appears to have nourished his infant 
miagination b_y tnis means, while her husband paid more attention to " the 
weightier matters of the law." These worthy people laboured hard for 
the support of an increasing family. William was occupied with Mr. Fer- 
guson's service, and Agnes contrived to manage a small dairy as well as 
lier children. But though their honesty and diligence merited better things, 
their condition continued to be very uncomfortable ; and our poet, (in his 
letter to Dr. Moore), accounts distinctly for his being born and bred " a 
ver}^ poor man's son," by the remark, that " stubborn ungainly integrity, 
and headlong ungovernable irascibility, are disqualifying circumstances." 

These defects of temper did not, however, obscure the sterling worth 
of William Burnes in the eyes of Mr. P'erguson ; who, when his garde- 
ner expressed a wish to try his for tuneon a farm of his, then vacant, and 
confessed at the same time his inability to meet the charges of stocking it, 
at once advanced 1 100 towards the removal of the difficulty. Burnes ac- 
cordingly removed to this farm (that of Mount Oliphant, in the parish of 
Ayr) at WHiitsuntide 176(>, when his eldest son was between six and seven 
years of age. But the soil proved to be of the most ungrateful descrip- 
tion ; and Mr. Ferguson dying, and his affairs falling into the hands of a 
\\2iYhh factor, (who afterwards sat for his pictuie in the Twa Dogs), .Hurnes 
was glad to give up his bargain at the end of six years. He then removed 
about ten miles to a larger and better farm, that of Lochlea, in the parish 
of Tarbolton. But here, after a short interval of prosperity, some unfor- 
tunate misunderstanding took place as to the conditions of the lease : the 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. iii 

dispute was referred to arbitration ; and, after three years of suspense, the 
result involved Burnes in ruin. The worthy man lived to know of this de- 
cision ; but death saved him from witnessing its necessary consequences. 
He died of consumption on the 1 3th February 1784. Severe labour, and 
hopes only renewed to be baffled, had at last exhausted a robust but irri- 
table structure and temperament of body and of mind- 
In the midst of the harassing struggles which found this termination, 
William Burnes appears to have used his utmost exertions for promoting 
the mental improvement of his children — a duty rarely neglected by Scot- 
tish parents, however humble their station, and scanty their means may 
be. Robert was sent, in his sixth year, to a small school at Alloway 
Miln, about a mile from the house in which he was born ; but Campbell, 
the teacher, being in the course of a few months removed to another 
gituation, Burnes and four or five of his neighbours engaged Mr. John 
Murdoch to supply his place, lodging him by turns in their own houses, 
and ensuring to him a small payment of money quarterly. Robert Burns, 
and Gilbert his next brother, were the aptest and the favourite pupils of 
this worthy man, who survived till very lately, and who has, in a letter 
published at length by Currie, detailed, with honest pride, the part which 
he had in the early education of our poet. He became the frequent in- 
mate and confidential friend of the family, and speaks with enthusiasm of 
the virtues of William Burnes, and of the peaceful and happy life of his 
humble abode. 

"He was (says Murdoch) a tender and affectionate father ; he took plea- 
sure in leading his children in the path of virtue ; not in driving them, as 
eome parents do, to the performance of duties to which they themselves are 
averse. He took care to find fault but very seldom ; and therefore, when 
he did rebuke, he was listened to with a kind of reverential awe. A look 
of disapprobation was felt ; a reproof was severely so : and a stripe with 
the tawz, even on the skirt of the coat, gave heart-felt pain, produced a 
loud lamentation, and brought forth a flood of tears. 

" He had the art of gaining the esteem and good-will of those that were 
labourers under him. i think I never saw him angry but twice : the one 
time it was with the foreman of the band, for not reaping the field as he 
was desired; and the other time, it was with an old man, for using smutty 
inuendos and double e7ite7idresy " In this mean cottage, of which I my- 
self was at times an inhabitant, I really believe there dwelt a larger po"- 
tion of content than in any palace in Europe. The Cottar s Saturday Niyhr 
will give some idea of the temper and manners that prevailed there." 

The boys, under the joint tuition of Murdoch and their father, made ra- 
pid progress in reading, spelling, and writing ; they committed psalms and 
hymns to memory with extraordinary ease — the teacher taking care (as he 
tells uis) that they should understand the exact meaning of each word in 
the sentence ere they tried to get it by heart. " As soon," says he, " as 
they were capable of it, I taught them to turn verse into its natural prose 
order ; sometimes to substitute synonymous expressions for poetical words ; 
and to supply all the ehipses. Robert and Gilbert were generally at the 
upper end of the class, even when ranged v ith boys by far their seniors. 
The books most commonly used in the sc./iool were the Spelling Book. 
i\\e New Testament, the Bible, Masons Col ection of Prose and Verse, and 
Fisher's English Grammar.'' — " Gilbert alw ys appeard to me to possess a 
m<?re lively imagination, and to be more o the wit, than Robert. I at' 



1 1 



iv LIFE OF ROBERT BOURNS. 

tempted to teach them a Httle church-music. Here they were kft far be^ 
hind by all the rest of the school. Robert's eai, in particular, was remark- 
I ably dull, and his voice untunable. It was long before I could get them 
j to distinguish one tune from another. Robert's countenance was general- 
j ly grave and expressive of a serious, contemplative, and thoughtful mind, 
j Gilberts face said, Mirth., with thee I mean to live; and certainly, if any 
j person who knew the two boys, had been asked which of them was the 
i most likely to court the Muses, he would never have guessed that Robert 
I h«i.d a propensity of that kind." 
j I " At those years," says the poet himself, in 1787, " I was by no means 
a favourite with anybody. I was a good deal noted for ti retentive memory, 
a stubborn sturdy something in my disposition, and an enthusiastic idiot 
piety. I say idiot piety, because I was then but a child. Though it cost 
the schoolmaster some thrashings, I made an excellent English scholar ; 
and by the time I was ten or eleven years of age, I was a critic in substan- 
tives, verbs, and particles. In my infant and boyish days, too, I owed 
much to an old woman who resided in the family, remarkable for her 
ignorance, credulity, and superstition. She had, I suppose, the largest 
collection in the country of tales and songs concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, 
brownies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, dead-lights, 
wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, giants, enchanted towers, dragons, and other 
trumpery. This cultivated the latent seeds of poetry ; but had so strong 
an effect on my imagination, that to this hour, in my nocturnal rambles, I 
sometimes keep a sharp look-out in suspicious places ; and though nobody 
can be more sceptical than I am in such matters, yet it often takes an ef- 
fort of philosophy to shake off these idle terrors. The earliest composition 
that I recollect taking pleasure in, was 7'he Vision of Mirza, and a hymn 
of Addison's, beginning, Haiv are thy servants blest^ O Lord ! 1 particular- 
ly remember one half-stanza, which was music to my boyish ear — 

" For though on dreadful whirls we hung 
High on the broken wave — " 

I met with these pieces in Masons English Collection^ one of my school- 
books. The two first books I ever read in private, and which gave me 
more pleasure than any two books 1 ever read since, were, The Life of Han- 
nibal, and The History of Sir William Wallace. Hannibal gave my young 
ideas such a turn, that 1 used to strut in raptures up and down after the 
recruiting drum and bagpipe, and wish myself tall enough to be a soldier ; 
while the story of Wallace poured a tide of Scottish prejudice into my 
▼eiiis, which will boil along there till the flood-gates of life shut in eternal 
rest." 

Murdoch continued his instructions until the family had been about two 
years at Mount Oliphant — when he left for a time that part of the country. 
•' There being no school near us," says Gilbert Burns, " and our little ser- 
vices being already useful on the farm, my father undertook tc teach us arith- 
metic in the winter evenings by candle hght — and in this way my two elder 
sisters received all the education they ever received " Gilbert tells an anec- 
dote which must not be oi'iitted here, since it furnishes an early instance 
of the liveliness of his bro her's imagination. INIurdoch, being on a visit 
to the family, read aloud on > evening part of the tragedy of Titus Andro- 
nicus — the circle listened m h the deepest interest until he came to Act 
>J, Bc. 5, where Lavinia is troduced " with her hands cut off, and hei 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. v 

tongue cut out." At this the children entreated, with one voice, in an 
agony of distress, that their friend would read no more. " If ye will not 
hear the play out," said William Burnes, " it need not be left with you." 
— " If it be left," cries Robert, " I will burn it." His father was about 
to chide him for this return to Murdoch's kindness — but the good youna: 
man mterfered, saying he liked to see so much sensibility, and left 'liie 
School for Love in place of his truculent tragedy. At this time Robert 
was nine years of age. " Nothing," continues Gilbert Burns, " could be 
more retired than our general manner of living at Mount Oliphant ; we 
rarely saw any body but the members of our own family. There were no 
boy.s of our own age, or near it, in the neighbourhood. Indeed the greatest 
part of the land in the vicinity was at that time possessed by shopkeepers, 
and peopleof that stamp, who had retired from business, or who kept their 
farm in the country, at the same time that they followed business in town. 
My father was for some time almost the only companion we had. He con- 
versed familiarly on all subjects with us, as if we had been men ; and was 
at great pains, while we accompanied him in the labours of the farm, to 
lead the conversation to such subjects as might tend to increase our know- 
ledge, or confirm us in virtuous habits. He borrowed Salmons Geogra- 
pfiical Grammar for us, and endeavoured to make us acquainted with the 
situation and history of the different countries in the world ; while, from a 
book-society in Ayr, he procured for us the reading of Derhams Pliysico 
and Astro- Theology, and Rays Wisdom of God in the Creation, to give us ■ i 
some idea of astronomy and natural history. Robert read all these books \ I 
with an avidity and industry scarcely to be equalled. My father had been j | 
a subscriber to Stachhouses History of the Bible. From this Robert col- i I 
lected a competent knowledge of ancient history ; for no book ivas so vc ' 
luminous as to slacken, his industry, or so antiquated as to damp his researches." 
A collection of letters by eminent English authors, is mentioned as having 
fallen into Burns's hands much about the same time, and greatly delighted 
him. 

When Burns was about thirteen or fourteen years old, his father sent 
him and Gilbert " week about, during a summer quarter," to the parish 
school of Dalrymple, two or three miles distant from Mount Oliphant, for 
the improvement of their penmanship. The good man could not pay two 
fees ; or his two boys could not be spared at the same time from the la- 
bour of the farm ! " We lived very poorly," says the poet. '' I was a dex- 
terous ploughman for my age ; and the next eldest to me was a brother, 
(Gilbert), who could drive the plough very well, and help me to thrash the 
corn. A novel writer might perhaps have viewed these scenes with some 
satisfaction, but so did not I. My indignation yet boils at the recollection 
of the scoundrel factor's insolent letters, which used to set us all in tears." 
Gilbert Burns gives his brother's situation at this period in greater detail 
— " To the buffetings of misfortune," says he, " we could only o})pose 
hard labour and the most rigid economy. We lived very sparingly. Tor 
several years butcher's meat was a stranger in the house, while all the 
members of the family exerted themselves to the utmost of their strength 
and rather beyond it, in the labours of the farm. My brother, at the age 
of thirteen, assisted in thrashing the crop of corn, and at fifteen was the 
principal labourer on the farm, for we had no hired servant, male or female. 
The anguish of mind we felt at our tender years, under these straits and 
difficulties, was very great. To think of oui fathei growing old (for he was 



fe 



VI LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

now above fifty), broken down with the long- continued iatigue& of his life, 
with a wife and five other children, and in a declining state of circumstances, 
these reflections produced in my brother's mind and mine sensations of tlie 
deepest distress. I doubt not but the hard labour and sorrow of this pe- 
riod of his life, was in a great measure the cause of that depression of spirits 
with Avhich Robert was so often afflicted through his whole life afterwards. 
At this time he was almost constantly afflicted in the evenings with a dull 
headach which, at a future period of his life, was exchanged for a palpita- 
tion of the heart, and a threatening of fainting and suffocation in his bed, in 
the night-time." 

The year after this, Burns was able to gain three weeks of respite, one 
before, and two after the harvest, from the labours which were thus stniiti- 
ing his youthful strength. His tutor Murdoch was now established in the 
town of Ayr, and the boy spent one of these weeks in revising the EnglJKb 
grammar with him ; the other two were given to French. He laboured 
enthusiastically in the new pursuit, and came home at the end of a fort- 
night with a dictionary and a Telemaqiie, of which he made such use at his 
eisure hours, by himself, that in a short time (if we may believe Gilbert) 
he was able to understand any ordinary book of French prose. His pro- 
gress, whatever it really amounted to, was looked on as something of a 
prodigy ; and a writing-master in Ayr, a friend of Murdoch, insisted that 
Robert Burns must next attempt the riidimejits nf tite Latin tongue. He 
did so, but with little perseverance, we may be sure, since the results were 
of no sort of value. Burns's Latin consisted of a few scraps of hackneyed 
quotations, such as many that never looked into Ruddiman's Rudiments 
can apply, on occasion, quite as skilfully as he ever appears to have done. 
The matter is one of no importance ; we might perhaps safely dismiss it 
v^ith parodying what Ben Jonson said of Shakspeare ; he had little 
French, and no Latin. He had read, however, and read well, ere his six- 
teenth year elapsed, no contemptible amount of the literature of his own 
country. In addition to the books which have already been mentioned, he 
tells us that, ere the family quitted Mount Oliphant, he had read " the 
Spectator, some plays of Shakspeare, Pope, (the Homer included), Tull 
and Dickson on Agriculture, Locke on the Human Understanding, Jus- 
tice's British Gardener s Directory, Boyle's Lectures, 'J aylor's Scriptur^e 
Doctrine of Original Sin, A Select Collection of English So?igs, Hervey's 
Meditations,'' (a book which has ever been very popular among the Scottish 
peasantry), " and the Works of Allan Ramsay ;" and Gilbert adds to this 
list Pamela, (the first novel either of the brothers read), two stray vo- 
lumes of Peregrine Pickle, two of Count Fathom, and a single volume of 
" some English historian," containing the reigns of James L, and his son. 
The " Collection of Songs," says Burns, was my vade mecum. 1 pored 
over them, driving my cart, or walking to labour, song by song, verse by 
verse ; carefully noticing the true, tender, or sublime, from affectation or 
fustian ; and 1 am convinced 1 owe to this practice much of my critic-craft, 
sucli as it is." 

He derived, during tliis period, considerable advantages from the vicinity 
of Mount Oliphant to the town of Ayr — a place then, and still, distmguish- 
ed by the residence of many respectable gentlemen's families, and a con- 
sequent elegance of society and manners, not common in remote provni- 
cial situations. To his friend, Mr. Murdoch, he no doubt owed, in the first 
instance, whatever attentions he received there from people older as weU 



m 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. vll 

as higher than himself: some such persons appear to have taken r pleasure 
in lending him books, and surely no kindness could have been more useful 
to him than this. As for his coevals, he himself says, very justly, " It is 
not commonly at that green age that our young gentry have a just sense 
of the distance between them and their ragged playfellows. My young 
superiors," he proceeds, " never insulted the clouterly appearance of my 
olough-boy carcass, the two extremes of which were often ex})0sed to all 
the inclemencies of all the seasons. They would give me stray volumes 
of books : among them, even then, I could pick up some observation ; and 
one, whose heart I am sure not even the Munny Begum scenes have tainted, 
helped me to a little French. Farting with these, my young friends and 
benefactors, as they occasionally went off for tlie East or West Indies, was of- 
ten to me a sore affliction, — but I was soon called to more serious evils." — 
(Letter to Moore). The condition of the family during the last two years 
of their residence at Mount Oliphant, when the struggle which ended in 
their removal was rapidly approaching its crisis, has been already describ- 
ed ; nor need we dwell again on the untimely burden of sorrow, as well as 
toil, which fell to the share of the youthful poet, and which would have 
broken altogether any mind wherein feelings like his had existed, without 
strength like his to control them. The removal of the family to Lochlea, 
in the parish of Tarbolton, took place when Burns was in his sixteenth year 
He had some time before this made his first attempt in verse, and the occa- 
sion is thus described by himself in his letter to Moore. " This kind of life — 
the cheerless gloom of a hermit, with the unceasing moil of a galley-slave, 
brought me to my sixteenth year ; a little before which period I first commit- 
ted the sin of Rhyme. You know our country custom of coupling a man and 
woman together as partners in the labours of harvest. In my fifteenth au- 
tumn my partner was a bewitching creature, a year younger than myself. 
My scarcity of Enghsh denies me the power of doing her justice in that 
language ; but you know the Scottish idiom — she was a bormie, sweet, sonsie 
lass. In short, she. altogether unwittingly to herself, initiated me in that 
delicious passion, which, in spite of acid disappointment, gin- horse pru- 
dence, and book-worm philosophy, I hold to be the first of human joys, our 
dearest blessing here below ! How she caught the contagion, I cannot tell : 
you medical people talk much of infection from breathing the same air, the 
touch, &c. ; but I never expressly said I loved her. Indeed, I did not know 
myself why I liked so much to loiter behind with her, when returning in 
the evening from our labours ; why the tones of her voice made my heart- 
strings thrill like an ^Eolian harp ; and particularly why my pulse beat such 
a furious ratan, when I looked and fingered over her little hand, to pick t ut 
the cruel nettle-stings and thistles. Among her other love-inspiring qua- 
lities, she sung sweetly ; and it was her favourite reel, to which I attempted 
giving an embodied vehicle in rhyme. I was not so presumptuous as lo 
imagine that I could make verses like printed ones, composed by men who 
had Greek and Latin ; but my girl sung a song, which was said to be com- 
posed by a small country laird's son, on one of his father's maids, with whom 
he was in love ; and I saw no reason why 1 might not rhyme as well as he ; 
for, excepting that he could smear sheep, and cast peats, his father living 
in the moorlands, he had no more scholar-craft than myself. 

" Thus with me began love and poetry ; which at times have been my 
onlv, and till within the last twelve months, have been my highest enjoy- 



viii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

The earliest of the poet's productions is the little balUd, 

*' O once 1 loved a bonny lass. 

Burns himself characterises it as " a very puerile and silly performance ," 
yet it contains here and there lines of which he need hardlv have been 
ashamed at any period of his life : — 

*' She dresses aye sae clean and neat, 
Baith decent and genteel, 
And then there's something in her g 
Gars ony dress look weel." 

" Silly and puerile as it is," said the poet, long afterwards, " I am al- 
ways pleased with this song, as it recalls to my mind those happy days 
when my heart was yet honest, and my tongue sincere...! composed it in a 
wild enthusiasm of passion, and to this hour 1 never recollect it but my 
heart melts, my blood sallies, at the remembrance." (MS. Memorandum 
book, August 1783.) 

In his first epistle to Lapraik (1785) he says — 

" Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
1 to the crambo-jingle fell, 

Tho' rude and rough ; 
Yet crooning to a body's sell 

Does weel eneugh." 

And in some nobler verses, entitled " On my Early Days," we have the 
fallowing passage : — 

*' I mind it weel in early date, 

M'hen I was beardless, young and blate, 

And first could thrash the barn, 
Or baud a yokin' o' the pleugh, 
An' tho' for tough ten sair eneugh, 

Vet unco proud to learn — 
When first amang the yellow corn 

A man I reckoned was, 
An' wi' the lave ilk merry morn 

Could rank my rig and lass- 
Still sheariiig and clearing 

The tither stookit raw, 
Wi' claivers and haivers 

Wearing the day awa — 
E'en then a wisli, I mind its power, 
A wisli that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast : 
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake, 
Some useful plan or book could make. 

Or sing a sang, at least : 
The rough bur-thistle spreading wide 

Amang the bearded bear, 
I turn'd the weeder-clips aside. 

And spared the symbol df;ar.'* 

He is hardly to be envied who can contemplate without emotion, this 
exquisite picture of young nature and young genius. It was amidst such 
scenes that this extraordinary being felt those first indefinite stirrings of 
immortal ambition, which he has himself shadowed out under the magnifi- 
cent image of " the blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops, around the walls 
of his cave." 




TTK! [E ^ D [© 



CHAPTER II. 

'•OSTXNTS From 17 to 24 — Robert and Gilbert Burns work to their Father, as Lahourer$^ 

at stated Wages — At Rvral Work the Poet feared no Competitor — This period not marked 
hy much Mental Improvement — At Dancing- School — Progress in Love and Poetry — A 
School at Kirkoswald's — Bad Company — At Irvine — Flaxdressing — Becomes there Mem 
her of a Batchelors Club. 



*' O enviable early days. 

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze^ 

To care and g-uilt unknown ! 
How ill excharged for riper times, 
To feel the follies or the crimes 

Of others — or my own !" 

As has been already mentioned, William Burnes now quitted Mount 
Oliphant for Lochlea, in the parish of Tarbolton, where, for some little 
space, fortune appeared to smile on his industry and frugality. Robert 
and Gilbert were employed by their father as regular labourers — he allow> 
ing them £1 of wages each per annum ; from which sum, however, the 
value of any home-made clothes received by the youths was exactly de- 
ducted. Robert Burns's person, inured to daily toil, and continually expos- 
ed to every variety of weather, presented, before the usual time, every cha- 
racteristic of robust and vigorous manhood. He says himself, that he never 
feared a competitor in any species of rural exertion ; and Gilbert Burns, 
a man of uncommon bodily strength, adds, that neither he, nor any labourer 
he ever saw at work, was equal to the youthful poet, either in the corn 
field, or the severer tasks of the thrashing-floor. Gilbert says, that Ro- 
bert's literary zeal slackened considerably after their removal to Tarbolton. 
He was separated from his acquaintances of the town of Ayr, and proba- 
bly missed not only the stimulus of their conversation, but the kindness 
that had furnished him Avith his supply, such as it was, of books. But the 
main source of his change of habits about this period was, it is confessed 
on all hands, the precocious fervour of one of his own turbulent passions. 

" In my seventeenth year," says Burns, " to give my manners a brush, I 
went to a country dancing-school.— My father had an unaccountable anti- 
pathy against these meetings ; and my going was, what to this moment I 
repent, in opposition to his wishes. My father was subject to strong pas- 
sions ; from that instance of disobedience in me, he took a sort of dislike 
to me, which 1 beheve was one cause of the dissipation which marked my 
succeeding years. I say dissipation, comparatively with the strictness, 
and s.ob'iety, and regularity of Presbyterian country life ; for though the 
Will- o'- Wisp meteors of thoughtless whim were ahnost the sole lights of 
ray path, yet early ingrained piety and virtue kept me for several years 
afterwards within the line of innocence. 'J'he great misfortune of my life 
was to want an aim. I saw my father's situation entailed on me perpetual 
labour. The only two openings by ich I could enter the temple of 1 or- 



X LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

tune, were the gate of nigardly economy, or the path of Httle chicaning 
bargain-making. The first is so contracted an aperture, I could nevei 
squeeze myself into it; — the last I always hated — there was contamination 
in the very entrance ! Thus abandoned of aim or view in life, with a 
strong appetite for sociability, as well from native hilarity, as from a pride 
of observation and remark ; a constitutional melancholy or hypochondria 
cism that made me fly solitude ; add to these incentives to social life, my 
-eputation for bookish knowledge, a certain wild logical talent, and a 
strength of thought, something like the rudiments of good sense : and vt 
will not seem surprising that 1 was generally a welcome guest wheic 1 vi- 
sited, or any great wonder that, always where two or three met together, 
there was 1 among them. But far beyond all other impulses of my heart, 
was un penchant pour I adorable moitie du genre humain. My heart was com- 
pletely tinder, and was eternally lighted up by some goddess or other ; 
and as in every other warfare in this world my fortune was various, some- 
times I was received with favour, and sometimes I was mortified with a 
repulse. At the plough, scythe, or reap-hook, I feared no competitor, and 
thus I set absolute want at defiance ; and as I never cared farther foi my 
labours than while I was in actual exercise, I spent the evenings in the 
way after my own heart. A country lad seldom carries on a love adven- 
ture without an assisting confidant. I possessed a curiosity, zeal, and in- 
fepid dexterity, that recommended me as a proper second on these occa- 
sions, and I dare say, I felt as much pleasure in being in the secret of 
half the loves of the parish of Tarbolton, as ever did statesman in knowing 
the intrigues of half the courts of Europe." 

In regard to the same critical period of Burns's life, his excellent brother 
writes as follows : — " 1 wonder how Robert could attribute to our father that 
lasting resentment of his going to a dancing-school against his will, of which 
he was incapable. I believe the truth was, that about this time he began 
to see the dangerous impetuosity of my brother's passions, as well as his 
not being amenable to counsel, which often irritated my father, and which 
he would naturally think a dancing- school was not likely to correct. But 
he was proud of Robert's genius, which he bestowed more expense on 
cultivating than on the rest of the family — and he was equally delighted 
with his warmth of heart, and conversational powers. He had indeed that 
dislike of dancing-schools which Robert mentions ; but so far overcame it 
during Robert's first month of attendance, that he permitted the rest of 
the family that were fit for it, to accompany him during the second month. 
Robert excelled in dancing, and was for some time distractedly fond of it. 
And thus the seven years we lived in Tarbolton parish (extending from the 
seventeenth to the twenty-fourth of my brother's age) were not marked by 
much literary improvement ; but, during this time, the foundation was laid 
of certain habits in my brother's character, which afterwards became but 
too prominent, and which malice and envy have taken delight to enlarge 
on. Though, when young, he was bashful and awkward in his intercourse 
with women, yet when he approached manhood, his attachment to their 
iociety became very strong, and he was constantly the victim of some 
fair enslaver. The symptoms of his passion M'ere often such as nearly to 
equal those of the celebrated Sappho. I never indeed knew that he 
fainted, sunk, and died away ; but the agitations of his mind and body 
exceeded any thing of the kind I ever knew in real life. He had always a 
particular jealousy of people who were richer than himseif, or wiio had 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xi 

m')re conseq ence in life. His love, therefore, rarely settled on persons 
of this description. When he selected any one out of the sovereignty of 
his ^ood pleasure to whom he should pay his particular attention, she was 
instantly invested with a sufficient stock of charms, out of the plentiful 
stores of his own imagination ; and there was often a great dissimilitude 
between his fair captivator, as she appeared to others, and as she seemed 
when invested with the attributes he gave her. One generally reigned 
paramount in his affections ; but as Yorick's affections flowed out toward 

Madame de L at the remise door, while the eternal vows of Eliza were 

upon him, so Robert was frequently encountering other attractions., which 
formed so many under-plots in the drama of his love." 

Thus occupied with labour, love, and dancing, the youth *' without an 
aim" found leisure occasionally to clothe the sufficiently various moods oi 
his mind in rhymes. It was as early as seventeen, (he tells us),* that he 
wrote some stanzas which begin beautifully : 

" I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing 

Gaily in the svinny beam ; 
Listening to the wild birds singing, 

By a fallen crystal stream. 
Straight tlie sky grew black and daring, 

Thro' the woods the whhlwinds rave, 
Trees with aged arms were warring. 

O'er the swelling drumlie wave. 
Such was life's deceitful morning." &e. 

On comparing these verses with those on " Handsome Nell," the ad- 
vance achieved by the young bard in the course of two sVort years, must 
be regarded with admiration ; nor should a minor circumstance be entirely 
overlooked, that in the piece which we have just been quoting, there occurs 
but one Scotch word. It was about this time, also, that he wrote a ballad of 
much less ambitious vein, which, years after, he says, he used to con over 
with delight, because of the faithfulness with which it recalled to him the 
circumstances and feelings of his opening manhood. 

— " My father was a farmer upon the Carrick Border, 
And carefuUy he brought me up in decency and order. 
And bade me act a manly part, tho' I had ne'er a farthing ; 
For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding. 

Then out into the world my course I did determine ; 
Tho'' to he rich xvas not my wish, yet to be great was charming i 
My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my education ; 
Resolved was I at least to try to mend my situation. 

No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to befriend me; 
So 1 must toil, and sweat, and broil, and labour to sustain me. 
To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early ; 
For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for fortune fairly. 

Thus all obscure, unknown and poor, thro' life I'm doomed to wander; 
Till down ray weary bones i lay, in everlasting slumber. 
No view, nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me pain or sorrow; 
I live to-day, as well's I may, regardless of to-morrow," &c. 

These are the only two of his very early productions in K-hich we lia^e 
lothing expressly about love. The rest were composed to celebrate the 
charms pf those rural beauties who followed each other in the dominion of 

• Rdiques, p. 242. 






xu LIFE OP ROBERT BURNS 

his fancy — or sliared the capricious throne between them ; and we may 
easily believe, that one who possessed, with his other qualifications, such 
powers of flattering, feared competitors as little in the diversions of hi?, 
evenings as in the toils of his day. 

The rural lover, in those districts, pursues his tender vocation in a style, 
•he especial fascination of which town-bred swains may find it some- 
H'hat difficult to comprehend. After the labours of the day are over, nay, 
very often after he is supposed by the inmates of his own fireside to be in 
his bed, the happy youth thinks little of walking many long Scotch miles 
to the residence of his mistress, who, upon the signal of a tap at her win- 
dow, comes forth to spend a soft hour or two beneath the harvest moon, 
or, if the weather be severe, (a circumstance which never prevents the 
journey from being accomplished), amidst the sheaves of her father's barn. 
This " chappin' out," as they call it, is a custom of which parents com- 
monly wink at, if they do not openly approve, the observance ; and the 
consequences are far, very far, more frequently quite harmless, than per- 
sons not familiar with the peculiar manners and feelings of our peasantry 
may find it easy to believe. Excursions of this class form the theme of 
almost all the songs which Burns is known to have produced about this pe- 
riod, — and such of these juvenile performances as have been preserved, 
are, without exception, beautiful, 'i hey show how powerfully his bojdsh 
fancy had been affected by the old rural minstrelsy of his own country, 
and how easily his native taste caught the secret of its charm. The truth 
a^d simplicity of nature breathe in every line— the images are always just, 
often originally happy — and the growing refinement of his ear and judg- 
ment, may be traced in the terser language and more mellow flow of eac:h 
successive ballad. 

The best of the songs written at this time is that begmning,— 

" It was upon a Lammas night, 
When corn rigs are bonnie. 
Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I held awa to Annie. 
The time flew by wi' tentless heed, 

Till, 'tv/een the late and early, 
M^i' sma' persuasion she agreed 
To see me thro' the bailey." 

We may let the poet carry on his own story. " A circumstance," says 
he, " which made some alteration on my mind and manners, was, that I 
spent my nineteenth summer on a smuggling coast, a good distance from 
home, at a noted school (Kirkoswald's) to learn mensuration, surveying, 
dialling, &c., in which I made a good progress. But I made a greater pro- 
gress in the knowledge of mankind. The contraband trade was at that 
time very successful, and it sometimes happened to me to fall in with those 
who carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot and roaring dissipation were 
till this time new to me ; but I was no enemy to social life. Here, though 
1 learnt to fill my glass, and to mix without fear in a drunken squabble, yet 
I went on with a high hand with my geometry, till the sun entered Virgo, 
a month which is always a carnival in my bosom, when a charming ^/e^/e, 
who lived next door to the school, overset my trigonometry, and set me 
off at a tangent from the sphere of my studies. 1, however, struggled on 
with my sines and co-sines for a few days more ; but stepping into the gar- 
den one chaiming noon to take the sun's altitude, there I met my angeL 
love : - — 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xil 

" Proserpine, gathering flowera, 
Herself a fairer flower/' 

" It was in vain to think of doing any more good at school. The remain 
ing week I staid, I did nothing but craze the faculties of my soul about 
her, or steal out to meet her ; and the two last nights of my stay in tfn; 
country, had sleep been a mortal sin, the image of this modest and inno- 
cent girl had kept me guiltless. I returned home very considerably improved. 
My reading was enlarged with the very important addition of Thomson's 
and Shenstone's Works ; I had seen human nature in a new phasis ; and I 
engaged several of my school -fellows to keep up a literary correspondence 
with me. This improved me in composition. I had met with a collection 
of letters by the wits of Queen Anne's reign, and I pored over them most 
devoutly ; I kept copies of any of my own letters that pleased me ; and a 
comparison between them and the composition of most of my correspon- 
dents flattered my vanity. I carried this whim so far, that though I had 
not three farthings worth of business in the world, yet almost every post 
brought me as many letters as if I had been a broad plodding son of day- 
book and ledger. My life flowed on much in the same course till my 
twenty-third year. ) "ive I' amour ^ et vice la bagatelle, were my sole princi- 
ples of action. Tlie addition of two more authors to my library gave me 
great pleasure; Sterne and Mackenzie — Tristram Shandy 2iX\d. The Man 
of Feeling — were my bosom favourites. Poesy was still a darling walk for 
my mind ; but it was only indulged in according to the humour of the hour. 
I had usually half a dozen or more pieces on hand; I took up one or other, 
as it suited the momentary tone of the mind, and dismissed the work as 
it bordered on fatigue. My passions, once lighted up, raged like so many 
devils, till they found vent in rhyme ; and then the conning over my verses, 
like a spell, soothed all into quiet." 

Of the rhymes of those days, few, when he wrote his letter to Moore, had 
appeared in print. Winter, a dirge, an admirably versified piece, is of their 
number ; The Death of Poor Mailie, Mailie's Elegy, and John Barleycorn ; 
and one charming song, inspired by the Nymph of Kirkoswald's, whose at- 
tractions put an end to his trigonometry. 

Kow westlin winds, and siaughtefin <in« 

Bring Autumn's pleasant weather ; 
The moorcock S))rings, on whirring wings, 

Amang the blooming lieather. . . . 
— Peggy dear, the evening's clear, 

Thick flies the skimming swallow ; 
The sky is blue, the fields in view, 
_^ All fading green and yellow ; 
Come let us stray our gladsome way," &c. 

John Barleycorn is a clever old ballad, very cleverly new-modelled and 
extended ; but the Death and Elegy of Poor Blailie deserve more atten- 
tion. The expiring animal's admonitions touching the education of the 
" poor toop lamb, her son and heir," and the " yowie, silly thing," her 
daughter, are from the same peculiar vein of sly homely wit, embeddt.:* 
upon fancy, which he afterwards dug with a bolder hand in the Twa Dogs, 
and perhaps to its utmost depth, in his Death and Doctor Hornbook. It 
need scarcely be added, that Poor Mailie was a real personage, though she 
did not actually die until some time after her last words were written. She 
had been purchased by Burns in a frolic, and became exceedingly attached 
to his Der«4nn 



j^iv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

•• Thro' all the town she trotted by him ; 

A lang half-mile she could descry him ; 
WV kindly bleat, Avhen she did spy him. 

She ran wi' speed : 
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er came nigh him, 

Than JMailie dead." 

These litt-e pieces are in a much broader dialect than any of their pre- 
decessors. His merriment and satire were, from the beginning, Scotch. 
Notwithstanding the luxurious tone of some of Burns s pieces produced in 
those times, we are assured by himself (and his brother unhesitatingly con- 
hrms the statement) that no positive vice mingled in any of his loves, until 
after he had reached his twenty-third year. He has already told us, that 
his short residence " away from home" at Kirkoswald's, where he mixed 
in the society of seafaring men and smugglers, produced an unfavourable 
alteration on some of his habits; but in 1781-2 he spent six months at 
Irvine ; and it is from this period that his brother dates a serious change. 

<* As his numerous connexion-3," says Gilbert, " were governed by the 
strictest rules of virtue and modesty, (from which he never deviated till 
his twenty-third year), he became anxious to be in a situation to marry 
'J his was not likely to be the case while he remained a farmer, as the stock- 
ing of a farm required a sum of money he saw no probability of being m-is- 
ter of for a great while. He and I had for several ye^irs taken land of our 
father, for the purpose of raising flax on our own account ; and in the 
course of selling it, Robert began to think of turning flax- dresser, both as 
benig suitable to his grand view of settling in life, and as subservient to 
the flax-raising." Burns, accordingly, went to a half-brother of his mo 
ther s, by name Peacock, a flax-dresser in Irvine, with the view of learn- 
ing this new trade, and for some time he applied himself diligently ; but 
mis-rortune after misfortune attended him. The shop accidentally caught 
lire during the carousal of a new-year's-day's morning,, and Robert " was 
left, like a true poet, not worth a sixpence." — " 1 was obliged," says he, 
" to give up this scheme ; the clouds of misfortune were gathering thick 
round my father's head ; and what was worst of all, he was visibly far gone 
in a consumption ; and, to crown my distresses, a belle Jille whom I adored, 
and who had pledged her soul to meet me in the held of matrimony, jilted 
me, with peculiar circumstances of mortification. The finishing evil that 
brought up the rear of this infernal file, was, my constitutional melancholy 
being increased to such a degree, that for three months 1 was in a state 
of mind scarcely to be envied by the hopeless wretches who have got 
their mittimus — Depart from tne, ye cursed ^ The following letter, addressed 
by Burns to his father, three days before the unfortunate fire took place, 
will show abundantly that the gloom of his spirits had little need of that 
aggravation. When we consider by whom, to whom, and under what cir- 
cumstances, it was written, the letter is every way a remarkable one : — 

" Honoured Sir, 
<« I HAVE purposely delayed writing, ir< he hope that 1 should have 
the pleasure of seeing you on New-year's day ; but work comes so hard 
unon us, * 3t J do r>ot ch-^ vx ^o i>e ti'.>."it o.j thL; uC?"'>u.m, i^-* well as for 
som: other iittle reasons, which 1 shall tell you .^i meeting. My health is 
nearly the same as when you were here, only my sleep is a little sounder; 
and, on the whole, la.) rrfx^T better than otherwise, though I mti.d by 
very slow degrees. The weakness of my *iervcs has so debilitated my 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xv 

mild, tliat I dare neither review past wants, nor look forward into futurity 
for the least anxiety or perturbation in my breast produces most unhappy 
etfects on my whole frame. Sometimes, indeed, when for an hour or twc 
my spirits are alightened, I glimmer a little into futurity ; but my principal, 
and indeed my only pleasurable employment, is looking backwards and for- 
wards in a moral and religious way. I am quite transported at the thought, 
that ere long, perhaps very soon, I shall bid an eternal adieu to all the 
pains and uneasiness, and disquietudes of this weary life ; for I assure you 
1 am heartily tired of it ; and, if I do not very much deceive myself, I 
could contentedly and gladly resign it. 

* The soul, uneasy, and confined at home, 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.' 

" It is for this reason I am more pleased with the 15th, 16th, and 17th 
verses of the 7 th chapter of Rev^elations, than with any ten times as many 
verses In the whole Bible, and would not exchange the noble enthusiasm 
with whicJi they inspire me for all that this world has to offer. As for this 
world, I despair of ever making a figure in it. I am not formed for the 
bustle of the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. 1 shall never again be cap- 
able of entering into such scenes. Indeed, I am altogether unconcerned 
at the thoughts of this hfe. I foresee that poverty and obscurity probably 
await me, and I am in some measure prepared, and daily preparing, to meet 
them. I have but just time and paper to return you my grateful thanks 
^0^ the lessons of virtue and piety you have given me, which were too much 
nei>lected at the time of giving them, but which I hope have been remem- 
be>'ed ere it is yet too late. Present my dutiful respects to my mother, 
and my compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Muir; and, with wishing you a 
merry New-year's -day, I shall conclude. 

" 1 am, honoured Sir, your dutiful son, 

" Robert Burns." 

« P. S. — M}^ meal is nearly out ; but I am going to borrow, till I get 
more." 

The verses of Scripture here alluded to, are as follows : — 

" 15. Therefore are the)' before the throne of God, and serve him day and night in his tem- 
ple ; and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. 

" IG. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more ; neither shall the sun light on 
them, nor any heat. 

" 17. For "tlie Lamb that is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them 
unto living fountains of waters ; and Grod shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.'* 

" This letter," says Dr. Currie, " written several years before tlie publi- 
cation of his Poems, when his name was as obscure as his condition v/a3 
hunible, displays the philosophic melancholy which so generally forms the 
poetical temperament, and that buoyant and ambitious spirit which indi- 
cates a mind conscious of its strength. At Irvine, Burns at this time pos- 
sessed a single room for his lodgings, rented, perhaps, at the rate of a shil- 
ling a-week. He passed his days in constant labour as a tlax-dresser, and 
his food consisted chiefly of oat-meal, sent to him from his father's family. 
The store of this humble, though wholesome nutriment, it a])pears, was 
nearly exhausted, and he was about to borrow till he should obtain a sup- 
ply. Yet even in this situation, his active imagination had formed to itself 
pictures of eminence and distinction. His despair of making a figure ii? 



xvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

the world, shows how ardently he wished for honouraole fame ; and his 
contempt of life, founded on this despair, is the genuine expression of a 
youthful and generous mind. In such a state of reflection, and of suffering, 
the imagination of Burns naturally passed the dark boundaries of our earthly 
horizon, and rested on those beautiful representations of a better world, 
where there is neither thirst, nor hunger, nor sorrow, and where happiness 
shall be in proportion to the capacity of happiness." — Life, p. 102. 

Unhappily for himself and for the world, it was not always in the recol- 
lections of his virtuous home and the study of his Bible, that Burns sought 
for consolation amidst the heavy distresses which *' his youth was heir to.' 
Irvine is a small sea-port ; and here, as at Kirkoswald's, the adventurous 
spirits of a smuggling coast, with all their jovial habits, were to be met 
with in abundance. " He contracted some acquaintance," says Gilbert, 
" of a freer manner of thinking and living than he had been used to, whose 
society prepared iirn for overleaping the bounds of rigid virtue, which had 
hitherto restrained liim." 

One of the most intimate companions of Burns, while he remained at 
Irvine, seems to have been David Sillar, to whom the Epistle to Da- 
vie, a Brother Poet, was subsequently addressed. Sillar was at this time a 
poor schoolmaster in Irvine, enjoying considerable reputation as a writer 
of local verses : and, according to all accounts, extremely jovial in his life 
and conversation. 

Burns himself thus sums up the results of his residence at Irvine : — 
" From this adventure I learned something of a town life ; but the princi- 
pal thing which gave my mind a turn, was a friendship I formed with a 
young fellow, a very noble character, but a hapless son of misfortune He 
v^as the son of a simple mechanic ; but a great man in the neighboui hood, 
taking him under his patronage, gave him a genteel education, with :; view 
of bettering his situation in life. The patron dying just as he was ready to 
launch out into the world, the poor fellow in despair went to sea ; where, 
after a variety of good and ill fortune, a little before I was acquainted with 
him, he had been set ashore by an American privateer, on the wild coast ot 

Connaught, stripped of every thing His mind was fraught with 

independence, magnanimity, and every manly virtue. I loved and admir- 
ed him to a degree of enthusiasm, and of course strove to imitate him. In 
some measure 1 succeeded ; I had pride before, but he taught it to flow in 
proper channels. His knowledge of the world was vastly superior to mine • 
and 1 was all attention to learn. He was the only man 1 ever saw who was 
a greater fool than myself, where women was the presiding star ; but he 
spoke of illicit love with the levity of a sailor — which hitherto I had regard- 
ed with horror. Here his friendship did me a mischief." Professor Walker, 
when preparing to write his Sketcli of the Poet's life, was informed by an 
aged inhabitant of Irvine, that Burns's chief delight while there was in dis- 
cussing religious topics, particularly in those circles which usually gather 
in a Scotch churchyard after service. The senior added, that Bums com- 
monly tooK the high Calvinistic side in such debates ; and concluded with 
d boast, that " the lad" was indebted to himself in s great measure for 
the gradual adoption of " more liberal opinions." It v^as during the same 
period, that the poet was first initiated in the niysteries of free masonry, 
" which was," says his bro ;her, " his first introduction to the life of a boon 
companion." He was introduced to St. Mary's Lodge of Tarbolton by 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xvii 

John Ranken, a -^"ery dissipated man of considerable talents, to whom he 
afterwards indited a poetical epistle, which will be noticed in its place. 

" Rhyme," Burns says, " I had given up ;" (on going to Irvine) " but 
meeting with Ferguson's Scottish Poems, I strung anew my wildly sound- 
ing lyre with emulating vigour." Neither flax-dressing nor the tavern 
could keep him long from his proper vocation. But it was probably this 
accidental meeting with Ferguson, that in a great measure finally deter- 
mined the Scottish character of Burns's pocAry; and indeed, but for the 
lasting sense of this obligation, and some natural sympathy with the personal 
misfortunes of Ferguson's life, it would be difficult to account for the very 
high terms in which Burns always mentions his productions. 

Shortly before Burns went to Irvine, he, his brother Gilbert, and some 
seven or eight young men besides, all of the parish of Tarbolton, had form- 
ed themselves into a society, which they called the Bachelor's Club ; and 
which met one evening in every month for the purposes of mutual enter- 
tainment and improvement. That their cups were but modestly filled is 
evident ; for the rules of the club did not permit any member to spend 
more than threepence at a sitting. A question was announced for dis- 
cussion at the close of each meeting; and at the next "-hey camic prepared 
to deliver their sentiments upon the subject-matter tb^s proposed. Burns 
drew up the regulations, and evidently M'as the principal person. He in- 
troduced his friend Sillar during his stay at Irvine, and the meetings ap- 
pear to have continued as long as the family remained in Tarbolton. Of 
the sort of questions discussed, we may form some notion from the minute 
of one evening, still extant in Burns's hand-writii g. — Question for Hal- 
loween, (Nov. 11), 1780.- " Suppose a young man, bred a farmer^ bnt 
without any fortune, has it in his power to marry either of two women, thi one 
a girl of large fortune, but neither handsome in person, nor agreeable iji ,:on' 
versation, but who can manage the household affairs of a farm well enovqh ; 
the other of them a girl every way agreeable in person, conversation, and behavi- 
our, but without any fortune : lahich of them shall he choose f Burns, as 
may be guessed, took the imprudent side in this discussion. 

" On one solitary occasion," says he, " we resolved to meet at Tarbol- 
ton in July, on the race-night, and have a dance in honour of our society. 
Accordingly, we did meet, each one with a partner, and spent the evening 
in such innocence and merriment, such cheerfulness and good humour, that 
every brother will long remember it with delight," There can be no doubt 
that Burns would not have patronized this sober association so lonjr, unless 
he had experienced at its assemblies the pleasure of a s*^imulated mind ; 
and as little, that to the habit of arranging his thoughts, and expressing 
them in somewhat of a formal shape, thus early cultivated, ^e ought to at- 
tribute much of that conversational skill which, wlien he first mingled with 
the upper world, was generally considered as the most remaikable of all his 
personal accomplishments. — Burns's associates of the Bachelor's Club, 
must have been young men possessed of talents and acquirements, other- 
wi-se such minds as his and Gilbert's could not have persisted in measuring 
themselves against theirs ; and we may believe that the periodical display 
of the poet s own vigour and resources, at these club-meetings, and (more 
frequently than his brother approved) at the Free Mason Lodges of Irvine 
and Tarbolton, extended his rural reputation ; and, by degrees, prepared 
persons not immediately included in his own circle, for the extraordinary 
impression which his poetical efforts were rre long tc crrz^ft,' all over " the 
Carrick border." 



Kvii: LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

David Sillar gives an account of the beginning of his own acquaintance 
with Burns, and introduction into this Bachelor's Club, which will always be 
read with much interest. — " Mr. Robert Burns was some time in the parish 
of 1 arbolton prior to my acquaintance with him. His social disposition 
easily procured him acquaintance ; but a certain satirical seasoning with 
which he and all poetical geniuses are in some degree influenced, while it 
set the rustic circle in a roar, was not unaccompanied with its kindre-d at- 
tendant, suspicious fear. I recollect hearing his neighbours observe, he had 
a great deal to say for himself, and that they suspected his principles. He 
wore the only tied hair in the parish ; and in the church, his plaid, which 
was of a particular colour, I think fillemot, he wrapped in a particular 
manner round his shoulders. These surmises, and his exterior, had such 
a magnetical influence on my curiosity, as made me particularly solicitous 
of his acquaintance. Whether my acquaintance with Gilbert was casual 
or premeditated, I am not now certain. By him I was introduced, not 
only to his brother, but to the whole of that family, where, in a short time, 
I became a frequent, and I believe, not unwelcome visitant. After the 
commencement of my acquaintance with the bard, we frequently met 
upon Sundays at church, when, between sermons, instead of going with 
our friends or lasses to the inn, we often took a walk in the fields. In these 
walks, I have frequently been struck with his facility in addressing the fair 
sex ; and many times, when I have been bashfully anxious how to express 
myself, he would have entered into conversation with them with the great- 
est ease and freedom ; and it was generally a death-blow to our conversa- 
tion, however agreeable, to meet a female acquaintance. Some of the few 
opportunities of a noontide walk that a country life allows her laborious 
sons, he spent on the banks of the river, or in the woods, in the neigh- 
bourhood of Stair, a situation peculiarly adapted to the genius of a rural 
bard. Some book (generally one of those mentioned in his letter to Mr. 
Murdoch) he always carried and read, when not otherwise employed. It 
was likewise his custom to read at table. In one of my visits to Lochlea, 
in time of a sowen supper, he was so intent on reading, I think Tristram 
Shandy, that his spoon falhng out of his hand, made him exclaim, in a 
tone scarcely imitable, ' Alas, poor Yorick !' Such was Burns, and such 
were his associates, when, in May 1781, I was admitted a member of 
the Bachelor's Club." 

The misfortunes of William Burnes thickened apace, as has already been 
seen, and were approaching their crisis at the time when Robert came 
home from his flax-dressing experiment at Irvine. The good old man 
died soon after ; and among other evils which he thus escaped, was an af- 
fliction that would, in his eyes, have been severe. The poet had not, as 
he confesses, come unscathed out of the society of those persons of " li- 
beral opinions" with whom he consorted in Irvine ; and he expressly 
attributes to their lessons, the scrape into which he fell soon after " he 
put his hand to plough again." He was compelled, according to the then 
all but universal custom of rural parishes in Scotland, to do penance in 
church, before the congregation, in consequence of the birth of an illegi- 
timate child ; and whatever may be thought of the propriety of such ex- 
hibitions, there can be no difference of opinion as to the culpable levity 
with which he describes the nature of his off'enre, and the still more re- 
prehensible bitterness with which, in his Epistle to Ranken, he inveighs 
against the clergyman, who, in rebuking him, only performed what was 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. sl\ 

then regular part of the clerical duty, and a part of it that could nevei 
have been at all agreeable to the worthy man whom he satirizes under 
the appellation of " Daddie Auld." T/ie Poet's Welcome to an Illegitimate 
Child was composed on the same occasion — a piece in which some very 
manly feelings are expressed, along with others which can give no one 
pleasure to contemplate. There is a song in honour of the same occasion, 
or a similar one about the same period. The rantin Dog the Daddie 6t, — 
which exhibits the poet as glorying, and only glorying in his shame. 

When I consider his tender affection for the surviving members of his 
own family, and the reverence with which he ever regarded the memory of 
the father whom he had so recently buried, I cannot believe that Burns has 
thought fit to record in verse all the feelings which this exposure excited 
in his bosom. " To wave (in his own language) the quantum of the sin," 
he who, two years afterwards, wrote The Cottar s Saturday Night, had not, 
we may be sure, hardened his heart to the thought of bringing additional 
sorrow and unexpected shame to the fireside of a widowed mother. But 
his false pride recoiled from letting his jovial associates guess how little he 
was able to drown the whispers of the still small voice ; and the fermenting 
bitterness of a mind ill at ease within itself, escaped (as may be too often 
traced in the history of satirists) in the shape of angry sarcasms against 
others, who, whatever their private errors might be, had at least done him 
no wrong. 

it is impossible not to smile at one item of consolation which Burns pro 
poses to himself on this occasion : — 

" Tne mair they talk, Fm kend the better ; 

E'en let them clash !" • 

This is indf ^d a singular manifestation of " the last infirmity of nobie 
minds." 



CHAPTER III. 



Contents. — The Brothers, Robert and Gilbert, become tenants of Mossyiel^^Their incessant 
labour and moderate habits — The farm cold and unfertile — N^ot prosperous — The Muse 
anti-cahnnistical — The poet tfience involved deeply in local polemics, a7id charged with he- 
resy — Curious account of these disputes — Early poems prompted by theni — Origin of and 
remarks vpon the poet*s principal pieces — JLove leads him far astray — A crisis-^ The jail or 
the West Indies — The alternative 



** The star that rules ray luckless lot 
Has fated me the russet coat, 
And damn'd my fortune to the groat; 

But in requit, 
Has bless'd me wi' a random shot 

O' country wit." 

Three months before the death of William Burnes, Robert and Gilbert 
took the farm of Mossgiel, in the neighbouring parish of Mauchline, with 
the view of providing a shelter for their parents, in the storm which they 
had seen gradually thickening, and knew must soon burst ; and to this 
place the whole family removed on William's death. The farm consisted 
of 119 acres, and the rent was £90. " It was stocked by the property 
and individual savings of the whole family, (says Gilbert), and was a joint 
concern among us. F^very member of the family was allowed ordinary 
wages for the laboui he performed on the farm. My brother's allowance 
and mine was £l per annum each ; and during the whole time this family 
concern lasted, which was four years, as well as during the preceding pe- 
riod at Lochlea, Roberts expenses never, in any one year, exceeded his 
slender income." 

*' I entered on this farm," says the poet, " with a full resolution, come, 
go, I will be imse. I read farming books, I calculated crops, I attended 
markets ; and, in short, in spite of the devil, and the world, and t/te flenh, 
I believe I should have been a wise man ; but the first year, from unfor- 
tunately buying liad seed, the second, from a late harvest, we lost half 
our crops. This overset all my wisdom, and I returned, like the dog to his 
vomit, and the fiuru that was washed to her tvallowing in the mire." 

<< At the time that our poet took the resolution of becoming wise, he 
procured," says Gilbert, " a little book of blank paper, with the purpose, 
expressed on the first page, of making farming memorandums. These 
farming memorawlums are curious enough," Gilbert slyly adds, " and a 
sp^'imen may gratify the reader." — Specimens accordingly he gives ; as. 

" O why the deuce should I repine. 
And be an ill foreboder ? 
I'm twenty-three, and five foot nine,— 
I'U go and be a sodijer," &c. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxi 

* O leave novells, ye Mauchline belles, 

Ye're safer at your spinning wheel ; 
Such witching books are baited hooks 

For rakisli rooks — like Rob BJossgiel. 
Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, 

They make your youthful fancies reel. 
They heat your veins, and fixe your brains, 

And then ye're prey for Rob Mossgiel," &c. &c. 

The foui /taiS duTlng which Burns resided on this cold and ungrateful 
farm of Mossgiel, were the most important of his life. It was then that 
his genius developed iis highest energies ; on the works produced in these 
years his fame was first established, and must ever continue mainly to rest-, 
it was then also that his personal character came out in all its brightest lights, 
and in all but its darkest shadows; and indeed from the commencement 
of this period, the history of the man may be traced, step by step, in his 
own immortal writings. Burns now began to know that nature had meant 
him for a poet ; and diligently, though as yet in secret, he laboured m 
what he felt to be his destined vocaiion. Gilbert continued for some time 
to be his chief often indeed his only confidant ; and any thing more inte- 
resting and delightful than this excellent man's account of the manner in 
v(hich the poems included in the first of his brother's publications were 
composed, is certainly not to be found in the annals of literary history. 

The reader has already seen, that long before the earliest of them was 
known beyond the domestic circle, the strength of Burns's understanding, 
and the keenness of his wit, as displayed in his ordinary conversation, and 
more particularly at masonic meetings and debating clubs, (of which he 
formed one in Mauchline, on the Tarbolton model, immediately on his re- 
moval to Mossgiel), had made his name known to some considerable extent 
in the country about Tarbolton, Mauchline, and Irvine ; and this prepared 
the way for his poetry. Professor Walker gives an anecdote on this head, 
which must riot be omitted. Burns already numbered several clergymen 
among his acquaintances. One of these gentlemen told the Professor, that 
after entering on the clerical profession, he had repeatedly met Burns in 
company, " where," said he, " the acuteness and originality displayed by 
him, the depth of his discernment, the force of his expressions, and the 
authoritative energy of his understanding, had created a sense of his 
power, of the extent of which I was unconscious, till it was revealed to 
me by accident. On the occasion of my second appearance in the pulpit, 
I came with an assured and tranquil mind, and though a few persons of 
education were present, advanced some length in the service with my con- 
fidence and self-possession unimpaired ; but when I saw Burns, who was 
of a different parish, unexpectedly enter the church, I was afiected with 
a tremor and embarrassment, which suddenly apprised me of the impression 
which my mind, unknown to itself, had previously received." The Pro- 
fessor adds, that the person who had thus unconsciously been measuring 
Jie stature of the intellectual giant, was not only a man of good talents 
and education, but '■ remarkable for a more than ordinary portion of con 
stitutional firmness." 

Every Scotch peasant who makes any pretension to understanding, is a 
theological critic — and Burns, no doubt, had long ere this time distinguish- 
ed himself considerably among those hard-headed groups that may usually 
be st>en gathered together in the church-yard after the sermon is over. It 
mav be guessed that from the time of his residence at Irvine, his stric^ 



xxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

tures were too often delivered in no reverend vein. " Polemical divinity, 
says he to Dr. Moore, in 1787, " about tliis time, was putting the coun. 
try half mad, and I, ambitious of shining in conversation-parties on Sun- 
days, at funerals, S:c., used to puzzle Calvinism with so much heat and in- 
discretion, that I raised a hue-and-cry of heresy against me, which has not 
ceased to this hour." 

To understand Burns's situation at this time, at once patronized by a 
number of clergymen, and attended with " a hue-and-cry of heresy," we 
must remember his own words, " that polemical divinity was putting the 
country half mad." Of both the two parties which, ever since the revolu- 
tion of 1088, have pretty equally divided the Church of Scotland, it so 
happened that some of the most zealous and conspicuous leaders and par- 
tizans were thus opposed to each other, in constant warfare, in this parti- 
cular district ; and their feuds being of course taken up among their con- 
gregations, and spleen and prejudice at work, even more furiously in the 
cottage than in the manse, he who, to the annoyance of the one set of belli- 
gerents, could talk like Burns, might count pretty surely, with whatever 
alloy his wit happened to be mingled, on the applause and countenance of 
the enemy. 'And it is needless to add, they were the less scrupulous sect 
of the two that enjoyed the co-operation, such as it was then, and far more 
important, as in the sequel it came to be, of our poet. 

William Burnes, as we have already seen, though a most exemplary and 
devout man, entertained opinions very different from those which conmion- 
ly obtained among the rigid Calvanists of his district. The worthy and 
pious old man himself, therefore, had not imprclbably infused into his son's 
mind its first prejudice against these persons. The jovial spirits with whom 
Burns associated at Irvine, and afterwards, were of course habitual deriders 
of the manners, as well as the tenets of the 

" Orthodox, ortliodox, wha believe m John Knox." 

We have already observed the effect of the young poet's own first collision 
with the ruling powers of prcsbyterian discipline ; but it was in the very 
act of settling at Mossgiel that Burns formed the connexion, which, more 
than any circumstance besides, influenced him as to the matter now in 
question. The farm belonged to the estate of the Earl of Loudoun, but 
the brothers held it on a sub-lease from Mr. Gavin Hamilton, writer {i. e, 
attorney) in Mauchline, a man, by every account, of engaging manners, 
open, kind, generous, and high-spirited, between whom and Robert Burns, 
a close and intimate friendship was ere long formed. Just about this time 
it happened that Hamilton was at open feud with Mr. Auld, the minister 
of Mauchline, (the same who had 2i\\'Q'c\i\y rebuked the poet), and the ruling 
elders of the parish, in consequence of certain irregularities in his personal 
conduct and deportment, which, according to the usual strict notions ol 
kirk discipline, were considered as fairly demanding the vigorous interfer 
ence of these authorities. The notice of this person, his own landlord, and, 
as it would seem, one of the principal inhabitants of the village of Mauch- 
line at the time, must, of course, have beyn very flattering t'j our polemical 
young farmer. He espoused (Javin Hamilton's quarrel warmly. Hamilton 
was naturally enough disposed to mix up his personal aftair with the stand 
ing controversies whereon Auld was at variance with a large and powerful 
body of his brother clergymen ; and by degrees Mr Hamilton's ardcnt/^^o- 
tegecAmc to be as vehemently interested in the church politics of Ayrshire, 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



xxiil 



as he could have been in politics of another order, had he happened to be 
a freeman of some open borough, and his patron a candidate for the honour 
of representing it in St. Stephen's. Mr. Cromek has been severely criti- 
cised fo*- some details of Mr. Gavin Hamilton's dissensions with his parish 
minister ; but perhaps it might have been well to limit the censure to the 
tone and spirit of the narrative, since there is no doubt that these petty 
squabbles had a large share in directing the early energies of Burns's po- 
etical talents. Even in the west of Scotland, such matters would hardly 
excite much notice now-a-days, but they were quite enough to produce a 
world of vexation and controversy forty years ago ; and the English reader to 
whom all such details are denied, will certainly never be able to compre- 
hend either the merits or the demerits of many of Burns's most remarkable 
productions. Since I have touched on this matter at all, I may as well 
add, that Hamilton's family, though professedly adhering to the Presbyte- 
rian Establishment, had always lain under a strong suspicion of Episcopa- 
lianism. Gavin's grandfather had been curate of Kirkoswald in the troubl- 
ed times that preceded the Revolution, and incurred great and lasting po- 
pular hatred, in consequence of being supposed to have had a principal 
hand in bringing a thousand of the Highlarui host into that region in 1 677-H. 
The district was commonly said not to have entirely recovered the effects 
of that savage visitation in less than a hundred years ; and the descendants 
and representatives of the Covenanters, whom the curate of Kirkoswald 
had the reputation at least of persecuting, were commonly supposed to re- 
gard with any thing rather than ready good-will, his grandson, the witty 
writer of Mauchline. A well-nursed prejudice of this kind was likely 
enough to be met by counter-spleen, and such seems to have been the truth 
of the case. The lapse of another generation has sufficed to wipe out every 
trace of feuds, that were still abundantly discernible, in the days when 
Ayrshire tirst began to ring with the equally zealous applause and vituper- 
ation of, — 



••' Poet Burns, 
And his priest-skelping turns " 

It is impossible to look back now to the civil war, which then raged 
among the churchmen of the west of Scotland, without confessing, that on 
either side there was much to regret, and not a little to blame. Proud 
and haughty spirits were unfortunately opposed to each other ; and in the 
superabundant display of zeal as to doctrinal points, neither party seems 
to have mingled much of the charity of the Christian temper. The whole 
exhibition was unlovely — the spectacle of such indecent violence among 
the leading Ecclesiastics of the district, acted most unfavourably on many 
men's minds— and no one can doubt that in the unsettled state of Robert 
Burns's principles, the effect must have been powerful as to him. 

Macgill and Dalrymple. the two ministers of the town of Ayr, had long 
been suspected of entertaining heterodox opinions on several points, par- 
ticularly the doctrine of original sin, and even of the Trinity ; and the for- 
mer at length published an Essay, which was considered as* demanding 
the notice of the Church-courts. More than a year was spent m the dis- 
cussions which arose out of this ; and at last Dr. Macgill was fain to ac- 
knowledge his errors, and promise that he would take an early opportunity 
of apologizing for them to his own 'congregation from the pulpit — which 
oromise, however, he never performed. The gentry of the country took 



I by certain cons})icuous zealots in the immediate ueighbom-hood of }>urn; 
I \Vhile this warfare raged, there broke out an inte tine discord within the 



j xAiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. j 

I j 

tor the most part, the side of Macglll who was a man of cold unpopulai I 

manners, but of unreproached moral character, and possessed of some ac- j 

complishmeits, though certainly not of distinguished talents. The bulk | 

of the lower orders espoused, with far more fervid zeal, the cause of those j 

who conducted the prosecution against this erring doctor. Gavin Hamil i 
ton, and all persons of his stamp, were of course on the side of Macgill — 

Auld, and the Mauchline elders, were his enemies. Mr. Robert Aiken, a i 

writer in Ayr, a man of remarkable talents, particularly in public speakinj.. ', 

had the principal management of Macgill's cause before the Presbytery, j 

and, I believe, also before the Synod. He was an intimate friend of Ha- j 
milton, and through him had about this time formed an acquaintance, which 
soon ripened into a warm friendship, with Burns. Burns, therefore, was 
from the beginning a zealous, as in the end he was perhaps the most effective 
partizan, of the side on which Aiken had staked so much of his reputation. 
Macgill, Dalrymple, and their brethren, suspected, with more or less jus- 
tice, of leaning to heterodox opinions, are the New Light pastors of his 

earliest satires. The prominent antagonists of these men, and chosen cham- i 

pions of the Auld Light, in Ayrshire, it must now be admitted on all hands, i 

presented, in many particulars of personal conduct and demeanour, as broad j 

a mark as ever tempted the shafts of a satirist. These men prided them- | 

selves on being the legitimate and undegenerate descendants and repre- I 

sentatives of the haughty Puritans, who chiefly conducted the overthrow , 

of Popery in Scotland, and who ruled for a time, and would fain have con- \ 

tinuod to rule, over both king and people, with a more tyrannical dominion I 

than ever the Catholic priesthood itself had been able to exercise amidst ! 

that high-spirited nation. With the horrors of the Papal system for ever j 

in their mouths, these men were in fact as bigoted monks, and almost as I 

relentless inquisitors in their hearts, as ever wore cowl and cord — austere | 

and ungracious of aspect, coarse and repulsive of address and manners — | 

i ! very Pharisees as to the lesser matters of the law, and many of them, to all | 

outward appearance at least, overflowing with pharisaical self-conceit, as I 

well as monastic bile. That admirable qualities lay concealed under this | 

ungainly exterior, and mingled with and checked the worst of these gloomy j 

passions, no candid man will permit himself to doubt or suspect for a mo- j 

ment ; and that Burns has grossly overcharged his portraits of them, deep- I 

ening shadows that were of themselves sufficiently dark, and excluding a(- I 

together those brighter, and perhaps softer, traits of character, which re- | 

deemed the originals within the sympathies of many of the worthiest and | 

best of men, seems equally clear. Their bitterest enemies dared not at i 

least to bring against them, even when the feud was at its height of fervour, i 

I charges of that heinous sort, which they fearlessly, and I fear justly, pre- 1 

I ferred against their antagonists. No one ever accused them of signing the i 

Articles, administering the sacraments, and eating the bread of a Churcli, I 

; whor^e fundamental doctrines they disbelieved, and, by insinuation at least, I 

I disavowed. | 

1 The law of Church-patronage was another subject on which controversy I 

i ran high and furious in the district at the same period ; the actual condi- j 

I tion of things on this lead being upheld by all the men of the New Light, ] 
I and condemned as equally at variance with the precepts of the gospel, and 
the rights of freemen, by not a few of the other party, and, in particular, 



i^IFE OF ROBERl BURNS. xxv 

cainp of the faction which he loved not. Two of the foremost leaders of 
the Auld Light party quarrelled about a question of parish-boundaries 



i i 



i I 



the matter was taken up in the Presbytery of Kilmarnock, and there, in j j 
the open court, to which the announcement of the discussion had drawn a 1 | 
multitude of tlie country people, and Burns among the rest, tlie reverend j 
divines, hitherto sworn friends and associates, lost all command of temper, j 
and abused each other coram popub, with a fiery virulence of personal in- I 
veciive, such as has long been banished from all popular assemblies, where- i i 
in the laws of courtesy are enforced by those of a certain unwritten code. | j 
" The first of my poetic offspring that saw the light," says Burns, " was | 1 
a burlesque lamentation on a quarrel between two reverend Calvinists, both i : 
of them dramatis personam in my Hoh/ Fair. I had a notion myself, that I } 
the piece had some merit ; but to prevent the worst, I gave a copy of it to | j 
a friend who was very fond of such things, and told him that i could not j j 
guess who was the author of it, but that I thouglit it })retty clever. With 
a certain description of the clergy, as well as laity, it met n-ith a roar oj 
applause" This was The IIoli/ Ttdlzie, or Twa Herds, The two herdsj 
or pastors, were Mr. Moodie, minister of Riccartoun, and that favourite vic- 
tim of Ikirns's, John Russell, then m.inister of Kilmarnock, and afterwards 
of Stirling. — " From this time," Burns says, " I began to be known in the 

country as a maker of rhymes Holy Willies Prayer next made its 

appearance, and alarmed the kirk-session so much, that they heid several 
meetings to look over their spiritual artillery, and see if any of it might 

be pointed against profane rhymers. Burns's reverend editor, Mr. i^aul, 

presents Holy Willies Prayer at full length, although not inserted in Dr. 
Carrie's edition, and calls on the friends of religion to bless the memory of 
the poet who took such a judicious method of '^ leading the liberal mind to 
a rational view of the nature of piayer." — " This," says that bold com- 
mentator, " was not only the prayer of Holy Willie, but it is merely the 
metrical version of every prayer that Is offered up by those who call tliem- 
selves the pure reformed church of Scotland. In the course of his read- 
ing and polemical warfare, Burns embraced and defended the opinions of 
Taylor of Norwich, Macgill, and that school of Divines. He could not 
reconcile his mind to that picture of the Being, whose very essence is 
love, which is drawn by the high Calvinists or the representatives of the 
Covenanters — namely, that he is disposed to grant salvation to none but j | 
a i^ssf of their sect ; that the whole Pagan world, the disriples of Maho- \ \ 
met, the Roman Catholics, the Lutherans, and even the Calvinists who | j 
differ from them in certain tenets, must, like Korah, Dathan and Abiram, j i 
descend to the pit of perdition, man, woman, and child, without the possi- I 
bility of escape ; but such are the identical doctrines of the Cameronians \ 
o'i the present day, and such was Holy Willie's style of prayer. The hy- | 
pocrisy and dishonesty of the man, who was at the time a reputed Saint, | i 
were perceived by the discerning penetration of Burns, and to expose i j 
them he considered his duty. The terrible view of the Deity exitlbited 
in that able production is precisely the same view v/hich Is given of him, | 
j I in different words, by many devout preachers at present. They inculcate, 
1 ! that the greatest sinner is the greatest favourite of heaven — that a reform- 
! I ed bawd is hiore acceptable to the Almighty than a pure virgin, who lias 
I I hardly ever transgressed even in thought — that the lost sheep alone will be j 
j i saved, and that the ninety-and-nine out of the hundred v/ill be left in the 
i j wilderness, to perish without mercy — that the Saviour of the world loves 



1 ! 



Kxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

the elect, not from any lovely qualities which they possess, for they are 
hateful in his sight, but " he loves them because he loves them." Such 
are the sentiments which are breathed by those who are denominated High 
Calvinists, and from which the soul of a poet who loves manidnd, and whc 
has not studied the system in all its bearings, recoils with horror. . . . The 
gloomy forbidding representation which they give of the Supreme Being 
has a tendency to produce insanity, and lead to suicide." * 

This Reverend author may be considered as expressing in the above, 
and in other passages of a similar tendency, the sentiments with which 
even the most audacious of Burns's anti-calvinistic satires were received 
among the Ayrshire divines of the New Light ; that performances so blas- 
phemous should have been, not only pardoned, but applaiided by minis- 
ters of religion, is a singular circumstance, which may go far to make the 
reader comprehend the exaggerated state of party feeling in Burns's native 
county, at the period when he first appealed to the public ear : nor is it 
fair to pronounce sentence upon the young and reckless satirist, without tak- 
ing into consideration the undeniable fact — that in his worst offences of 
this kind, he was encouraged and abetted by those, who, to say nothing 
more about their professional character and authority, were almost the 
only persons of liberal education whose society he had any opportunity of 
approaching at the period in question. Had Burns received, at this time, 
from his clerical friends and patrons, such advice as was tendered, when 
rather too late, by a layman who was as far from bigotry on religious sub- 
jects as any man in the world, this great genius might have made his first 
approaches to the public notice in a very different character. — " Let your 
bright talents," — (thus wrote the excellent John Ramsay of Ochtertyre, in 
October 1787), — " Let those bright talents which the Almighty has be- 
stowed on you, be henceforth employed to the noble purpose of supporting 
the cause of truth and virtue. An imagination so varied and forcible as 
yours, may do this in many different modes ; nor is it necessary to be al- 
ways serious, which you have been to good purpose ; good morals may be 
recommended in a comedy, or even in a song. Great allowances are due 
to the heat and inexperience of youth ; — and few poets can boast, like 
Thomson, of never having written a line, which, dying, they would wish to 
blot. In particular, I wish you to keep clear of the thorny walks of satire, 
which makes a man an hundred enemies for one friend, and is doubly dan- 
gerous when one is supposed to extend the slips and weaknesses of indi- 
viduals to their sect or party. About modes of faith, serious and excellent 
men have ahvays differed ; and there are certain curious questions, which 
may afford scope to men of metaphysical heads, but seldom mend the 
heart or temper. Whilst these points are beyond human ken, it is suffi- 
cient that all our sects concur in their views of morals. You will forgive 
me for these hints." 

It is am.using to observe how soon even really Bucolic bards learn the 
tricks of their trade : Burns knew already what lustre a compliment gains 
from being cct in sarcasm, when he made Willie call for special notice of 

" Gaun Hamilton's deserts, .... 

He drinks, and swears, and plays at carts ; 
Yet has sae mony taken' arts 

Wi' great and sma" 
Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts 

He steals awa," &c. 

• The Rev. Hamilton Paul's IJfe of Burns, pp. 40, 41 




M 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



XXVll 



Nor is his other patron, Aiken, introduced with inferior skill, as having 
merited Willie's most fervent execration by his " glib-tongued" defence of 
the heterodox doctor of Ayr ; 

" liOrd ! visit them wha did employ him. 
And for thy people's sake destroy 'em." 

Burns owed a compliment to this gentleman for a well-timed exercise of 
his elocutionary talents. " I never knew there was any merit in my poems," 
said he, " until Mr. Aitken read them into repute." 

Encouraged by the " roar of applause" which greeted these pieces, thus 
orally promulgated and recommended, he produced in succession various 
satires wherein the same set of persons were lashed ; as The Ordination ; 
The Kirlis Alarm,, &c. &c. ; and last, and best undoubtedly. The Holy 
Fair^ in which, unlike the others that have been mentioned, satire keeps 
its own place, and is subservient to the poetry of Burns. This was, in-, 
deed, an extraordinary performance ; no partizan of any sect could whisper 
that malice had forn^^ed its principal inspiration, or that its chief attraction 
lay in the boldness with which individuals, entitled and accustomed to re- 
spect, were held up to ridicule : it was acknowledged amidst the sternest 
mutterings of wrath, that national manners were once more in the hands 
of a national poet. The Holy Fair, however, created admiration, not sur- 
prise, among the circle of domestic friends who had been admitted to watch 
the steps of his progress in an art of which, beyond that circle, little or 
nothing was heard until the youthful poet produced at length a satirical 
master-piece. It is not possible to reconcile the statements of Gilbert and 
others, as to some of the minutiae of the chronological history of Burns's 
previous performances ; but there can be no doubt, that although from 
choice or accident, his first provincial fame was that of a satirist, he had, 
some time before any of his philippics on the Auld Light Divines made 
their appearance, exhibited to those who enjoyed his personal confidence, 
a range of imaginative power hardly inferior to what the Holy Fair itself dis- 
plays ; and, at least, such a rapidly Improving skill in poetical language 
and versification, as must have prepared them for witnessing, without won- 
der, even the most perfect specimens of his art. Gilbert says, that "among 
the eai'liest of his poems," was the Epistle to Dame, [i. e. Mr. David Slllar), 
and Mr. Walker believes that this was written very soon after the death of 
William Burnes. This piece is in the very intricate and difficult measure 
of the Cherry and the Slae ; and, on the whole, the poet moves with ease 
and grace in his very unnecessary trammels ; but young poets are careless 
beforehand of difficulties which would startle the experienced ; and great 
poets may overcome any difficulties if they once grapple with them ; so 
that I should rather ground my distrust of Gilbert's statement, if it must 
be literally taken, on the celebration of Jean, with which the epistle ter- 
minates : and, after all, she is celebrated in the concluding stanzas, which 
may have been added some time after the first draught. The gloomy cir- 
cumstances of the poet's personal condition, as described in this piece, 
were common, it cannot be doubted, to all the years of his youthful his- 
tory ; so that no particular date is to be founded upon these ; and if this 
was the first, certainly it was not the last occasion, on which Burns ex- 
rrcised his fancy in the colouring of the very worst issue that could attend 
a life of unsuccessful toil. But Gilbert's recollections, however on trivial 
points inaccurate, will always be more interesting than any thing that could 



xxviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURl^S. i I 

be put in their place. " Robert," says he, " often composed without an^ 
reguhir plan. When any thing made a strong impression on his mind, so 
as to rouse it to poetic exertion, he would give way to the impulse, and 
embody the thought in rhyme. If he hit on two or three stanzas to please 
him, he would then think of proper introductory, connecting, and conclud- 
ing stanzas ; hence the middle of a poem was often first produced. It was, 
I think, in summer 1784, when in the interval of harder labour, he and I 
were weeding in the garden (kail-yard), that he repeated to me the prin- 
cipal part of his epistle (to Davie). I believe the first idea of Robert's 
becoming an author was started on this occasion. I was much pleased 
with the epistle, and said to him 1 v/as of opinion it would bear being 
printed, and that it would be well received by people of taste ; that i 
thought it at least equal, if not superior, to niany of Allan Ramsay's epis- 
tles, and that the merit of these, and much other Scotch poetry, seemed 
to consist principally in tlie knack of the expression — but here, there was 
a strain of interesting sentiment, and the Scotticism of the language scarce- 
ly seemed affected, but appeared to be the natural language of the poet ; 
that, besides, there was certainly some novelty in a poet pointing out the 
consolations that were in store for him when he should go a-begging. Ro- 
bert seemed very well pleased with my criticism, and he talked of sending 
it to some magazine ; but as this plan afforded no opportunity of knowing 
how it would take, the idea was dropped. It was, I think, in the winter 
following, as we were going together with carts for coal to the family, (and 
I could yet point out the particular spot), that the author first repeated to 
me the Address to the Deil. The curious idea of such an address was sug- 
gested to him, by running over in his mind the many ludicrous accounts 
and representations we have, from various quarters, of this august person- 
age. Death and Docfnr Flonibook, though not published in the Kilmar- 
nock edition, Avas produced early in the year I7b5. The schoolmaster of 
Tarbolton parish, to eke up the scanty subssitence allowed to that useful 
class of men, had set up a shop of grocery goods. Having accidentally 
fallen in with some medical books, and become most hobby-horsically at- 
tached to the study of medicine, he had added the sale of a few medi- 
cines to his little trade. He had got a shop-bill printed, at the bottom of 
which, overlooking his own incapacity, he h.td advertised, that " Advice 
would be given in common disorders at the shop gratis." Robert was at a 
mason-meeting in Tarbolton, when the Donmiie unfortunately made too 
ostentatious a display of his medical skill. As he parted in the evening 
from this mixture of pedantry and physic, at the place where he describes 
his meeting with Death, one of those floating ideas of apparitions, he men- 
tions in his letter to Dr. INIoore, crossed his mind ; this set him to work for 
the rest of the way home. These circumstances he related when he re- 
peated the verses to me next afternoon, as I was holding the plough, and 
he was letting the water off the field beside me. The Epistle to John Lap- 
raik was produced exactly on the occasion described by the author. He 
says in that poem. On Fasten-een we had a rockin . I believe he has omit- 
ted the word rocking in the glossary. It is a term derived from those 
primitive times, when the country-women employed their spare hours in 
spinning on the rock or distaff. This simple implement is a very portable 
one, and well fitted to the social inclination of meeting in a neighbour's 
house ; hence the phrase oi going a-rocking, or with the rock. As the con- 
nexion the phrase had with the implement was forjjotten when the rcclt 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNb. xxlx 

gave place to tlie spinning-wheel, the phrase came to be usea by both 
sexes on social occasions, and men talk of going with their rocks as well as 
women. It was at one of these rockbigs at our house, when we had twelve 
01 fifteen young people with their rocks, that Lapraik's song, beginning — 
<' When 1 upon thy bosom lean," was sung, and we were informed who was 
the author. Upon this RoDert wrote his first epistle to Lapraik ; and his 
second in reply to his answer. The verses to the Mouse and Mourttnm 
Daisy were composed on the occasions mentioned, and while the author 
was holding the plough ; I could point out the particular spot where each 
was composed. Holding the plough was a favourite situation with Robert 
for poetic compositions, and some of his best verses were produced while 
he was at that exercise. Several of the poems v/ere produced for the pur- 
pose of bringing fcward some favourite sentiment of the author. He used 
to remark to me, that he could not well conceive a more mortifying picture 
of human life than a man seeking work. In casting about in his mind how 
this sentiment might be brought forward, the elegy, Man was made to 
Mourn, was composed. Robert had frequently remarked to me, that he 
thought there was something peculiarly venerable in the phrase, " Let us 
worship God," used by a decent sober head of a family introducing family 
worship. To this sentiment of the author the world is indebted for The Cot- 
tar s Saturday Night. The hint of the plan, and title of the poem, were taken 
from Ferguson's Farmer s Ingle. When Robert had not some pleasure 
in view, in which I was not thought fit to participate, we used frequently 
to walk together, when the weather was favourable, on the Sunday afte^ 
noons, (those precious breathing-times to the labouring part of the com- 
munity), and enjoyed such Sundays as would make one regret to see their 
xiumbtr abridged. It was in one of these walks that I first had the pleasure 
of hearing the author repeat The Cottar s Saturday Night. I do not recollect 
to have read or heard any thing by which I was more highly electrified. 
The fifth and six stanzas, and the eighteenth, thrilled with peculiar ecstacy 
through my soul." 

The poems mentioned by Gilbert Burns in the above extract, are among 
the most popular of his brother's performances ; and there may be a time 
for recurring to some of their peculiar merits as works of art. It may be 
mentioned here, that John Wilson, alias Dr. Flornbook, was not merely 
compelled to shut up shop as an apothecary, or druggist rather, by the sa- 
tire which bears his name ; but so irresistible was the tide of ridicule, that 
his pupils, one by one, deserted him, and he abandoned his Schoolcraft also. 
Removing to Glasgow, and turning himself successfully to commercial 
pursuits, Dr. Hornbook survived the local storm which he could not effec- 
tually withstand, and was often heard in his latter days, when waxing cheer- 
ful and communicative over a bowl of punch, " in the Saltmarket," to bless 
the lucky hour in which the dominie of Tarbolton provoked the castigation 
of Robert Burns. In those days the Scotch universities did not turn out 
doctors of physic by the hundred ; Mr. Wilson's was probably the only 
medicine-chest from which salts and senna were distributed for the benefit 
of a considerable circuit of parishes ; and his advice, to say the least of the 
matter, was perhaps as good as could be had, for love or money, among the 
wise women who were the only rivals of his practice. The poem which 
drove him from Ayrshire was not, we may believe, either expected or de- 
signed to produce any such serious effect. Poor Hornbook and the poet 
were old acquaintances, and in some sort rival wits at the time in the ma 
son lodee. 



XXX 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



In 3Ian was made to Mourn, whatever might be the casual idea that set 
the poet to work, it is but too evident, tliat he wrote from the habitual 
feeli-ngs of his own bosom. The indignation with which he through life 
contemplated the inequality of human condition, and particularly, the con- 
trast between his own worldly circumstances and intellectual rank, was 
never more bitterly, nor more loftily expressed, than in some of those 
stanzas : — 

" See yonder poor o'erlauouT'd wight, 

So abject, mean, and vile, 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil. 
And see his lordly fellow worm 

The poor petition spurn, 
Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 

If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave— 

By Nature's laws design'd — 
Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind ? 
If not, why am I subject to 

His cruelty and scorn, 
Or why has man the will and power 

To make his fellow mourn ?* 

" I had^an old grand-uncle," says the poet, in one of his letters to Mrs. 
Dunlop, *' with whom my mother lived in her girlish years ; the good old 
man, for such he was, was blind long ere he died ; during which time his 
highest enjoyment was to sit down and cry, while my mother would sing 
the simple old song of T/te Life and Age of Man." 

In Man was made to Mourn, Burns appears to have taken many hints 
from this ancient ballad, which begins thus : 

*' Upon the sixteen hundred year of God, and fifty-three, 
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, as writings testifie ; 
On January, the sixteenth day, as I did lie alone, 
With many a sigh and sob did say —Ah ! man is made to moan !"• 

The Cottars Saturday JSight is, perhaps, of all Burns's pieces, the one 
whose exclusion from the collection, were such things possible now-a-days, 
would be the most injurious, if not to the genius, at least to the character, 
of the man. In spite of many feeble lines, and some heavy stanzas, it ap- 
pears to me, that even his genius would suffer more in estimation, by being 
contemplated in the absence of this poem, than of any other single perform- 
ance he has left us. Loftier flights he certainly has made, but in these he 
remained but a short while on the wing, and effort is too often perceptible ; 
here the motion is easy, gentle, placidly undulating. There is more of the 
conscious security of power, than in any other of his serious pieces of con- 
siderable length ; the whole has the appearance of coming in a full stream 
from the fountain of the heart — a stream that soothes the ear, and has no 
glare on the surface. 

It is delightful to turn from any of the pieces which present so great a 
genius as writhing under an inevitable burden, to this, where his buoyant 
energy seems not even to feel the pressure. The miseries of toil and ])e- 
nury, who shall aff'ect to treat as unreal ? Yet they shrunk to small dimen- 
sions in the presenile of a spirit thus exalted at once, and softened, by the 
pieties of virgin loi e, filial reverence, and domestic devotion. 

* Cromek's Scottish Sonas. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxxi 

The Cottar s Saturday Night and the Hoht Fair have been put in con 
trast, and much marvel made that they should have sprung from the same 
source. " The annual celebration of the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper 
in the rural parishes of Scotland, has much in it," says the unfort^-iate 
Heron, " of those old popish festivals, in which superstition, traffic, and 
amusement, used to be strangely intermingled. Burns saw and seized in 
it one of the happiest of all subjects to afford scope for the dis})lay of that 
strong and piercing sagacity, by which he could almost intuitively distin- 
guish the reasonable from the absurd, and the becoming from the ridiculous ; 
of that picturesque power of fancy which enabled him to represent scenes, 
and persons, and groups, and looks, and attitudes, and gestures, in a manner 
almost as lively and impressive, even in words, as if all the artifices and ener- 
gies of the pencil had been employed ; of that knowledge which he had ne- 
cessarily acquired of the manners, passions, and prejudices of the rustics 
around him — of whatever was ridiculous, no less than whatever was affect- 
ingly beautiful in rural life." This is very good, but who ever disputed the 
exquisite graphic truth of the poem to which the critic refers ? The ques- 
tion remains as it stood; is there then nothing besides a strange mixture 
of superstition, traffic, and amusement, in the scene which such an annual 
celebration in a rural parish of Scotland presents ? Does nothing of what 
is " affectingly beautiful in rural life," make a part in the original which 
was before the poet's eyes ? Were " Superstition," " Hypocrisy,*' and 
" Fun," the only influences which he might justly have impersonated ^ It 
would be hard, I think, to speak so even of the old popish festivals to which 
Mr. Heron alludes ; it would be hard, surely, to say it of any festival m 
which, mingled as they may be with sanctimonious pretenders, and sur- 
rounded with giddy groups of onlookers, a mighty multitude of devout men 
are assembled for the worship of God, beneath the open heaven, and above 
the tombs of their fathers. 

Let us beware, however, of pushing our censure of a young poet, mad 
with the inspiration of the moment, from whatever source derived, too far. 
It can hardly be doubted that the author of T/ie Cottar s Saturday Night 
had felt, in his time, all that any man can feel in the contemplation of the 
most sublime of the religious observances of his country ; and as little, that 
had he taken up the subject of this rural sacrament in a solemn mood, he 
might have produced a piece as gravely beautiful, as his Huly Fair is 
quaint, graphic, and picturesque. A scene of family worship, on the other 
hand, I can easily imagine to have come from his hand as pregnant with the 
ludicrous as that Holy Fair itself. The family prayers of the Saturday's 
night, and the rural celebration of the Eucharist, are parts of the same sys- 
tem — the system which has made the people of Scotland what they are — 
and what, it is to be hoped, they will continue to be. And when men ask 
of themselves what this great national poet really thought of a system in 
which minds immeasurably inferior to his can see so much to venerate, it 
is surely just that they should pay most attention to what he has delivered 
under the gravest sanction. 

The Reverend Hamilton Paul does not desert his post on occasion ol 
The Holy Fair ; he defends that piece as manfully as Holy Willie; and, 
indeed, expressly applauds Burns for havmg endeavoured to explode ' a- 
buses discountenanced by the General Assembly." Halloween, a descrip 
tive poem, perhaps even more exquisitely wrought than the Holy Fair^ 
and containing nothing that could offend the feelings of anybody, was pro- 



xxxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

diiccil about the same period. Burns's art had now reached Its climax 
but it is time that we should revert more particularly to the personal his- 
tory of the poet. 

He seems to have very soon perceived, that the farm of Mossgiel could 

at the best furnish no more than the bare means of existence to so large 

I i ii family ; and wearied with " the prospects drear," from which he only 

I I escaped in.oc( asional intervals of social merriment, or when gay flashes of 

j solitary fancy, for they were no more, threw sunshine on every thing, he 

I very naturally took up the notion of quitting Scotland for a time, and try- 

I ing his fortune in the West indies, v/here, as is well known, the managers 

I I of the plantations are, in the great majority of cases, Scotchmen of Burns's 

I I own rank and condition. His letters show, that on two or three different 

I j occasions, long before his poetry had excited any attention, he had applied 

i I for, and nearly obtained appointments of this sort, through the intervention 

I i of his acquaintances in the sea-port of Irvine. Petty accidents, not worth 

I I describing, interfered to disappoint him from time to time ; but at last a 

I I new burst of misfortune rendered him doubly anxious to escape from his 

j i native land ; and but for an accident, his arrangements would certainly 

have been completed. But we must not come quite so rapidly to the last 

of his Ayrshire love-stories. How many lesser romances of this order were 

evolved and completed during his residence at Mossgiel, it is needless to 

inquire ; that they were many, his songs prove, for in those days he wrote 

no Jove-songs on imaginary Heroines. Mary Morison — Behind yon hills 

! lohe.rc Stinchar flows — On Cessnock bank there lives a lass — belong to tir.s 

I pevio.l ; and there are three or four inspired by Mary Campbell — the ob- 

j ^e( \ of by far the deepest passion that ever Burns knew, and which he has 

j accordinfjjly immortalized in the noblest of his elegiacs. In introducing 

i to Mr. Thomson's notice the song, — 

I 

*■• Will ye ^o to tlie Indies, my .'Mary, 
I And leave axilil Scotia's shore ? — 

I W"\\\ ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 

Across the Atlantic's roar ?" 

I Burns says, " In my early years, when I was thinking of going to the West 
Indies, 1 took this farewell of a dear girl ;" afterwards, in a note on — 

" Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 
The Castel o' Mont^^omerie ; 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 
Your waters never drumlie." 

he adds, — " After a pretty long trial of the most ardent reciprocal affec- 
tion, we met by appointment on the second Sunday of May, in a sequester- 
ed spot by the banks of Ayr, where we spent a day in taking a farwell be- 
I I fore she should embark for the West Highlands, to arrange matters among 
her friends for our projected change of life. At the close of the autumn 
following she crossed the sea to meet me at Greenock, where she had 
scarce landed when she was seized with a malignant fever, which hurried 
my dear girl to her grave in a few days, before 1 could even hear of her ill- 
ness ;" and Mr. Cromek, speaking of the same " day of parting love." gives 
some further particulars. " This adieu," says that zealous intjuirer into tiie 
details of Burns's story, " was performed with all those simple and striking 
ceremonials, which rustic sentiment has devised to prolong tender emotions. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS xxxn 

and to impose awe. The lovers stood on each side of a small purling brook 
— they laved their hands in the limpid stream — and, holding a Bible be- 
tween them, pronounced their vows to be faithful to each other. Thej- 
parted — never to meet again." It is proper to add, that Mr. Cromek's story 
has recently been confirmed very strongly by the accidental discovery of a 
Bible presented by Burns to Mary Campbell, in the possession of her still 
surviving sister at Ardrossan. Upon the boards of the first volume is in- 
scribed, in Burns's hand-writing, — " And ye shall not swear by my name 
falsely — I am the Lord." — Levit. chap. xix. v. 1 2. On the second volume, 
— " Thou shalt not forswear thyself, but shalt perform unto the Lord thine 
oath." — St. Matth. chap, v., v. 33. And, on a blank leaf of either, — " Ro- 
bert Burns, Alossgiel." How lasting was the poet's remembrance of this 
pure love, and its tragic termination, will be seen hereafter. Highland 
Mary seems to have died ere her lover had made any of his more serious 
attempts in poetry. In the Epistle to Mr. Sillar, (as we have already hint- 
ed), the very earliest, according to Gilbert, of these attempts, the poet 
celebrates " his Davie and his Jean.'' This was Jean Armour, a young 
woman, a step, if any thing, above Burns's own rank in life, the daughter 
of a respectable man, a master-mason, in the village of Mauchline, where 
she was at the time the reigning toast, and who still survives, as the re- 
spected widow of our poet. There are numberless allusions to her maiden 
charms in the best pieces which he produced at Mossgiel ; amongst others 
is the six Belles of Mauchline, at the head of whom she is placed. 

** In Mauchline there dwells six proper young belles, 
The pride of the place and its neighbourhood a ; 
Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess, 
In Ijon'on or Paris they'd gotten it a* : 

** Miss IMillar is fine. Miss Markland's divine. 

Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw ; 
There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss Morton, 
But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a\" 

The time is not yet come, in which all the details of this story can be ex- 
pected. Jean Armour found herself pregnant. 

Burns's worldly circumstances were in a most miserable state when he 
was informed of Miss Armour's condition ; and the first announcement of 
it staggered him like a blow. He saw nothing for it but to fly the country 
at once ; and, in a note to James Smith of Mauchline, the confidant of his 
amour, he thus wrote : — " Against two things I am fixed as fate — staying 
at home, and owning her conjugally. The first, by Heaven, I will not do ! 
— the last, by hell, I will never do ! — A good God bless you, and make 

you happy, up to the warmest weeping wish of parting friendship 

!f you see Jean, tell her 1 will meet her, so help me God, in my hour ot 
need." The lovers met accordingly , and the result of the meeting was 
what was to be anticipated from the tenderness and the manliness of Burns's 
feelings. All dread of personal inconvenience yielded at once to the tears 
of the woman he loved, and, ere they parted, he gave into her keeping a 
written acknowledgment of marriage. This, under the circumstances, and 
produced by a person in Miss Armour's condition, according to the Scots 
law, was to be accepted as legal evidence of an irregular marriage having 
really taken place ; it being of course imderstood that the marriage was to 
be formally avowed as soon as the consequences of their imprudence could 
no longer be concealed from her family. The disclosure was deferred to 



^xxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

the las*, moment, and it was received by the father of Miss Armour with 
equal surprise and anger. I^urns, confessing himself to be unequal to the 
maintenance of a family, proposed to go immediately to Jamaica, where he 
hoped to find better fortunes. He offered, if this were rejected, to aban- 
don his farm, which was by this time a hopeless concern, and earn bread, 
at least for his wife and children, by his labour at home ; but nothing could 
appease the indignation of Armour. By what arguments he prevailed on 
his daughter to take so strange and so painful a step we know not ; but the 
fact is certain, that, at his urgent entreaty, she destroyed the document. 

It was under such extraordinary circumstances that Miss Armour be- 
came the mother of twins. — Burns's love and pride, the two most powerful 
feelings of his mind, had been equally wounded. His anger and grief to- 
gether drove him, according to every account, to the verge of absolute 
insanity ; and some of his letters on this occasion, both published and un- 
published, have certainly all the appearance of having been written in as 
deep a concentration of despair as ever preceded the most awful of human 
calamities. His first thought had been, as we have seen, to fly at once 
from the scene of his disgrace and misery ; and this course seemed now to 
be absolutely necessary. He was summoned to find security for the main- 
tenance of the children whom he was prevented from legitimating ; but 
the man who had in his desk the immortal poems to which we have been 
referring above, either disdained to ask, or tried in vain to find, pecuniary 
assistance in his hour of need ; and the only alternative that pre£ented it 
self to his view was America or a jail 



CHAPTER IV. 

Contents. — The Poet gives up Mossgiel to his Brother Gilbert — Intends for Jamaica- . 
Subscription Edition of his Poems suggested to supply means of outfit — One 0/6OO copies 
printed at Kilmarnock, 1786 — It brings him extended reputation, and £20 — Also ma ng 
very kind friends, hut no patron — In these circumstances, Guaging first hinted to him by 
his early friends, Hamilton and Aiken — Sayings and doings in the first year of his fame — 
Jamaica again in view — Plan desisted from because of encouragement by Dr. Slucklock 
to vublish at Edinburgh, wherein the Poet sojourns. 



" He saw misfortune's cauld nor^-west^ 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; 
A jillet brak his heart at last, 

111 may she be ! 
So, took a birth afore the mast. 

An' owre the sea." 

Jamaica was now his mark, for at that time the United States were 
not looked to as the place of refuge they have since become. After some 
little time, and not a little trouble, the situation of assistant-overseer on 
the estate of Dr. Douglas in that colony, was procured for him by one ol 
his friends in the town of Irvine. Money to pay for his passage, however, 
he had not ; and it at last occurred to him that the few pounds requisite 
for this purpose, might be raised by the publication of some of the finest 
poems that ever delighted mankind. 

His landlord, Gavin Hamilton, Mr. Aiken, and other friends, encouraged 
him warmly ; and after some hesitation, he at length resolved to hazard ar 
experiment which might perhaps better his circumstances ; and, if any tole 
rable number of subscribers could be procured, could not make them worse 
than they were already. His rural patrons exerted themselves with suc- 
cess in the matter ; and so many copies were soon subscribed for, that 
Burns entered into terms with a printer in Kilmarnock, and began to copy 
out his performances for the press. He carried his MSS. piecemeal to the 
printer ; and encouraged by the ray of light which unexpected patronage 
had begun to throw on his affairs, composed, while the printing was in pro- 
gress, some of the best poems of the collection. The tale of the Twa Dogs, 
for instance, with which the volume commenced, is known to have been 
written in the short interval between the publication being determined on 
and the printing begun. His own account of the business to Dr. Moore is 
as follows : — 

" I gave up my part of the farm to my brother : in truth, it was onl} 
nominally mine ; and made what little preparation was in my power loi 
Jamaica. But before leaving my native land, I resolved to publish my 
Poems. I weighed my productions as impartially as was in my power : 1 
thought they had merit ; and it was a delicious idea thaf I should be called 
a clever fellow, even though it should never reach my ears — a poor negro- 
driver — or, perhaps, a victim to that inhospitable clime, and gone to the 



xxxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

world of spirits. I can truly say that, pauvre incomm as I then was, I liad 
oretty nearly as high an idea of myself and of my works as I have at this 
tnoment when the public has decided in their favour. It ever was my opi- 
nion, that the mistakes and blunders, both in a rational and religious point 
of view, of which we see thousands daily guilty, are owing to their igno- 
rance of themselves. -To know myself, had been all along my constant 
stuv^y. I weighed myself alone ; I balanced myself with others : I watch- 
ed every means of information, to see how much ground I occupied as a 
man and as a poet : I studied assiduously Nature's design in my formation — 
where the lights and shades in character were intended. I was pretty con- 
hdent my poems would meet with some applause ; but, at the worst, the 
roar of the Atlantic would deafen the voice of censure, and the novelty of 
West Indian scenes make me forget neglect. I threw off six hundred copies, 
for wliich I got subscriptions for about three hundred and fifty.* — My va- 
nity was highly gratified by the reception I met with from the public ; and 
besides, I pocketed nearly / 20. This sum came very seasonably, as I was 
thinking of indenting myself, for want of money to procure my passage. As 
soon as I was master of nine guineas, the price -of wafting me to the torrid 
zone, I took a steerage passage in the first ship that was to sail from the 
Clyde ; for 

" Hungry ruin had me in the wind." 

*' I had been for some days skulking from covert to covert, under all the 
terrors of a jail ; as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the merciless 
pack of the law at my heels. I had taken the last farewell of my ^ew friends ; 
my chest was on the road lo Greenock ; I had composed the last song I 
should ever measure in Caledonia, The gloomy night is gathering fast^ when 
a letter from Dr. Blacklock to a friend of mine, overthrew all my schemes, 
by opening new prospects to my poetic ambition." 

To the above rapid narrative of the poet, we may annex a iow details, 
gathered from his various biographers and from his own letters. — While 
the Kilmarnock edition was in the press, it appears that his friends Hamil- 
ton and Aiken revolved various schemes for procuring him the means oi 
remaining in Scotland ; and having studied some of the practical branches 
of mathematics, as we have seen, and in particular guaging, it occurred tc 
himself that a situation in the Excise might be better suited to him than any 
other he was at all likely to obtain by the intervention of such patrons as he 
possessed. He appears to have lingered longer after the publication oi the 
poems than one might suppose from his own narrative, in the hope that 
these gentlemen might at length succeed in their efforts in his behalf. The 
poems were received with favour, even with rapture, in the county of Ayr, 
and ere long over the adjoining counties. " Old and young," thus speaks 
Robert Ileron, " high and low, grave and gay, learned or ignorant, were 
alike delighted, agitated, transported. I w^as at that time resident in Gal- 
loway, contiguous to Ayrshire, and I can well remember how even plough 
boys and maid- servants would have glady bestowed the wages they earneu 
the most hardly, and which they wanted to purchase necessary clothing, 
if they might but procure the Works of Burns." — The poet soon found 
that his person also had become an object of general curiosity, and that a 
lively interest in his nersonal fortunes was excited among some of the gen- 

* '•'>'; t-ri l'urii> !. c.n.!! > tiiat a single iiidiYidual. ]\Ir. William Pari-""" 
Kiiiuuiiiock, ?ubsci).bed for oo C0DJ«». 



-JJ 



I i LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxxvii 

; try of the district, when the details of his story reached them, as it was 
I pretty sure to do, along with his modest and manly preface. * Among 
I others, the celebarted Professor Dugald Stewart of Edinburgh, and his ac 
complished lady, then resident at their beautiful seat of Catrine, began to 
notice him with much polite and friendly attention. Dr. Hugh Blair, who 
then held an eminent place in the literary society of Scotland, happened 
to be paying Mr. Stewart a visit, and on reading The Hohj Fair, at once 
pronounced it the " work of a very great genius ;" and Mrs. Stewart, her- 
self a poetess, flattered him perhaps still more highly by her warm com- 
mendations But. above all, his little volume happened to attract the no- 
tice of Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, a lady of high birth and ample fortune, 
enthusiastically attached to her country, and interested in whatever ap- 
peared to concern the honour of Scotland. This excellent woman, while 
slowly recovering from the languor of an illness, laid her hand acciden- 
tally on the new production of the provincial press, and opened the volume 
at Tlie Cottar s Saturday Night. " She read it over," says Gilbert, " with 
the greatest pleasure and surprise ; the poet's description of the simple 
cottagers operated on her mind like the charm of a powerful exorcist, re- 
pelling the demon ennui, and restoring her to her wonted inward harmony 
and satisfaction." Mrs. Dunlop instantly sent an express to Mossgiel, dis- 
tant sixteen miles from her residence, with a very kind letter to Burns, re- 
questing him to supply her, if he could, with half-a-dozen copies of the 
book, and to call at Dunlop as soon as he could find it convenient. Burns 
was from home, but he acknowledged the favour conferred on him in this 
very interesting letter : — 

« Madam, Ayrshire, 1786. 

" I AM truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, when I was so much 
honoured with your order for my copies, and incomparably more by the 
handsome compliments you are pleased to pay my poetic abilities. 1 am 
fully persuaded that there is not any class of mankind so feelingly alive to 
the titillations of applause as the sons of Parnassus ; nor is it easy to con- 
ceive how the heart of the poor bard dances with rapture, when those 
whose character in life gives them a right to be polite judges, honour him 
with their approbation. Had you been thoroughly acquainted with me, 
Madam, you could not have touched my darhng heart-chord more sweetly 
than by noticing my attempts to celebrate your illustrious ancestor, the 
Saviour of his Country, 



Great patriot hero ! ill requited chief!' 



" The first book I met with in my early years, which I perused with 
pleasure, was The Life of Hannibal ; the next was The History of Sir 
William Wallace : for several of my earlier years I had few other authors ; 
and many a solitary hour have I stole out, after the laborious vocations of 
the day, to shed a tear over their glorious but unfortunate stories. In 
those boyish days 1 remember in particular being struck with that part o< 
Wallace's story where these lines occur — 

" Syne to the I^eglan wood, when it was late, 
To make a silent and a safe retreat." 

• See Prose Compositions. 



xxxviil LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

" I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day my ane of life allowed, 
and walked half a dozen of miles to pay my respects to the Leglan wood, 
with as much devout enthsiasm as ever pilgrim did to Lore^to ; and as I 
explored every den and dell where I could suppose my heroic countryman 
to have lodged, I recollect (for even then I was a rhymer), that my heart 
glowed with a wish to be able to make a song on him in some measure 
equal to his merits." 

Shortly afterwards commenced a personal acquaintance with this ami- 
able and intelligent lady, who seems to have filled in some degree the place 
of Sage Mentor to the poet, and who never afterwards ceased to befriend 
him to the utmost of her power His letters to Mrs. Dunlop form a very 
large proportion of all his subsequent correspondence, and, addressed as 
they were to a person, whose sex, age, rank, and benevolence, nispired at 
once profound respect and a graceful confidence, will ever remain the most 
pleasing of all the materials of our poet's biography. 

At the residences of these new acquaintances. Burns was introduced into 
society of a class which he had not before approached ; and of the manner 
in which he stood the trial, Mr. Stewart thus writes to Dr. Currie : — 

" His manners were then, as they continued ever afterwards, simple, 
manly, and independent ; strongly expressive of conscious genius and 
worth ; but without any thing tliat indicated forwardness, arrogance, or 
vanity. He took his share in conversation, but not more than belonged to 
him ; and listened, with apparent attention and deference, on subjects 
where his want of education deprived him of the means of information. It 
there had been a little more of gentleness and accommodation in his tem- 
per, he would, I think, have been still more interesting ; but he had been 
accustomed to give law in the circle of his ordinary acquaintance ; and his 
dread of any thing approaching to meanness or servility, rendered his man 
ner somewhat decided and hard. Nothing, perhaps, was more remarkable 
among his various attainments than the fluency, and precision, and origi- 
nality of his language, when he spoke in company, more particularly as he 
aimed at purity in his turn of expression, and avoided, more successfully 
than most Scotsmen, the peculiarities of Scottish phraseology. At this time, 
Burns's prospects in life were so extremely gloomy, that he had seriously 
formed a plan for going out to Jamaica in a very humble situation, not, 
however, without lamenting that his want of patronage should force him 
to think of a project so repugnant to his feelings, when his ambition aimed 
at no higher an object than the station of an exciseman or ganger in his 
own country." 

The provincial applause of his publication, and the consequent notice ot 
his superiors, however flattering such things must have been, were far from 
administering any essential relief to the urgent necessities of Burns's situa- 
tion. Very shortly after his first visit to Catrine, where he met with the 
young and amiable Basil Lord Daer, whose condescension and kindness on 
the occasion he celebrates in some well-known verses, we find the poet 
writing to his friend, Mr. Aiken of Ayr, in the following sad strain : — " I 
have been feeling all the various rotations and movements within respect 
ing the Excise. There are many things plead strongly against it ; the un- 
certainty of getting soon into business, the consequences of my follies, which 
may perhaps make it impracticable for me to stay at home ; and besides, 
I have for some time been pining under secret wretchedness, from causes 



r" 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xxxix 

wliicli you pretty well know — the pang of disappointment, the sting of 
pride, with some wandering stabs of remorse, which never fail to settle on 
my vitals, like vultures, when attention is not called away by society, or 
the vagaries of the muse. Even in the hour of social mirth, my gaiety is 
the madness of an intoxicated criminal under the hands of the executioner. 
All these reasons urge me to go abroad ; and to all these reasons I hav« 
only one answer — the feelings of a father. This, in the present mood I am 
in, overbalances every thing that can be laid in the scale against it." 

He proceeds to say, that he claims no right to complain. '^ The world 
has in general been Idnd to me, fully up to my deserts I was for some 
time past fast getting into the pining distrustful snarl of the misanthrope. 
I saw myself alone, unfit for the struggle of life, shrinking at every rising 
cloud in the chance-directed atmosphere of fortune, while, all defenceless, 
I looked about in vain for a cover. It never 'occurred to me, at least never 
with the force it deserved, that this world is a busy scene, and man a crea- 
ture destined for a progressive struggle ; and that, however I might pos- 
sess a warm heart, and inoffensive manners, (which last, by the by, was 
rather more than I could well boast), still, more than these passive quali- 
ties, there was something to be done. When all my schoolfellows and 
youthful compeers were striking off, with eager hope and earnest Intent, 
on some one or other of the many paths of busy life, I was " standing Idle 
'n the market-place," or only left the chase of the butterfly from flower to 
flower, to hunt fancy from whim to whim. You see. Sir. that if to know 
one's errors, were a probability of mending them, I stand a fair chance ; 
but, according to the reverend Westminster divines, though conviction 
must precede conversion, It is very far from always implying it." 

In the midst of all the distresses of this period of suspense. Burns found 
time, as he tells Mr. Aiken, for some " vagaries of the muse ;" and one or 
two of these may deserve to be noticed here, as throwing light on his per- 
sonal demeanour during this first summer of his fame. The poems appear- 
ed in July, and one of the first persons of superior condition (Gilbert, in- 
deed, says the first) who courted his acquaintance in consequence of having 
read them, was ?vlrs. Stewart of Stair, a beautiful and accomplished lady 
Burns presented her on this occasion with som.e MSS. songs ; and among 
the rset, with one in which her own charms were celebrated in that warm 
strain of compliment which our poet seems to have all along considered 
tlie most proper to be used whenever this fair lady was to be addressed in 
rhyme. 

" Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise : 
My JMary's asleep by thy munnuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 
How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; 
There oft, as mild evening sweeps over the lea, 
The sweet-scented birk shades my JMary and me.*' 

It was in the spring of the same year, that he happened, in the course 
of an evening ramble on tlie banks of the Ayr, to meet with a young and 
lovely unmarried lady, of the family of Alexander of Ballamyle, of whom, 
it was said, her personal charms corresponded with the character of her 
mind. The incident gave rise to a poem, of which an account will he 
found in the following letter t:^ Miss Alexander, the object of his inspira- 
tion • — 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

« Madam, Mossgiel, \Htk Nov. 1786. 

" Poets are such outre beings, so much the children of wayward fanc^ 
and capricious whim, that I believe the world generally allows them a 
larger latitude in the laws of propriety, than the sober sons of judgment 
and prudence. I mention this as an apology for the liberties that a name 
less stranger has taken with you in the enclosed poem, which he begs leave 
to present you with. Whether it has poetical merit any way worthy of the 
theme, I am not the proper judge ; but it is the best my abilities can pro- 
duce ; and what to a good heart will perhaps be a superior grace, it i<^ 
equally sincere as fervent. 

" The scenery was nearly taken from real life, though I dare say, Ma 
dam, you do not recollect it, as I believe you scarcely noticed the poetic 
reveur as he wandered by you. I had roved out as chance directed in the 
favourite haunts of my muse, on the banks of the Ayr, to view nature in 
all the gaiety of the vernal year. The evening sun was flaming over the 
distant western hills ; not a breath stirred the crimson opening blossom, or 
the verdant spreading leaf It was a golden moment for a poetic heart. I 
listened to the feathered warblers, pouring their harmony on every han 
with a congenial kindred regard, and frequently turned out of my pa 
lest I should disturb their little songs, or frighten them to another stati 
Surely, said I to myself, he must be a wretch indeed, who, regardless of 
your harmonious endeavour to please him, can eye your elusive flights to 
discover your secret recesses, and to rob you of all the property nature 
gives you, your dearest comforts, your helpless nestlings. Even the hoary 
hawthorn-twig that shot across the way, what heart at such a time but 
nmst have been interested in its welfare, and wished it preserved from 
the rudely-browsing cattle, or the withering eastern blast? Such was the 
scene, and such the hour, when in a corner of my prospect, I spied one 
of the fairest pieces of Nature's workmanship that ever crowned a poetic 
landscape, or met a poet's eye, those visionary bards excepted who hold 
commerce with aerial beings ! Had Calumny and Villany taken my walk, 
they had at that moment sworn eternal peace with such an object. 

" What an hour of inspiration for a poet ! It would have raised plain 
dull, historic prose into metaphor and measure. 

" The enclosed song was the work of my return home ; and perhaps 5 
but poorly answers what might be expected from such a scene. 



** I have the honour to be," &c. 

" 'Twas even — the dwey fields were green. 
On every blade the peails hang ;* 

I The Zephyr wanton 'd round the beam, 

I And bore its fragrant sweets alang ; 

I In every glen the mavis sang. 

All nature listening seemed the while, 

j Except where green-wood echoes rang, 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

I 

I With careless step I onward strayed, 

^ily heart rejoiced in nature's joy, 
When musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair 1 chanc'd to spy ; 

Her look was like the morning's eye, 

Her air like nature's vernal smile, 

• Hang, Scotticism for /.«n^ 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xli 

Perfection whispered passing by. 
Behold the lass o' Ballochniyle !* 

Fair is the morn in flowery IMay, 

And sweet is night in autumn mild ; 
When roving through the garden gay, 

Or wandering in the lonely wild : 
But woman, nature's darling child ! 

There all her charms she does compile : • 
Even there her other works are foil'd 

By the bonny lass o' Balloclimyle. 

O had she been a country niHid, 

And I the happy country swain, 
Though sheltered in the lowest shed 

That ever rose on Scotland's plain. 
Through weary winter's wind and rain. 

With joy, with rapture, 1 would toil, 
And nightly to my bosom strain 

The bonny lass o' Ballochmyle. 

Then pride might climb the slippery steep, 

Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, 

Or downward seek the Indian mine : 
Give me the cot below the pine, 

To tend the flocks or till the soil. 
And every day have joys divine. 

With the bonny lass o' BaUochmyle. 

Tlie autumn of this eventful year was now drawing to a close, and Burns, 
>*no had already lingered three months in the hope, which he now consi- 
dered vain, of an excise appointment, perceived that another year must be 
/ost altogether, unless he made up his mind, and secured his passage to 
the West Indies. The Kilmarnock edition of his poems was, however, 
nearly exhausted ; and his friends encouraged him to produce another at i 
the same place, with the view of equipping himself the better for the ne- 
cessities of his voyage. But the printer at Kilmarnock would not under- 
take the new impression unless Burns advanced the price of the paper re- 
quired for it ; and with this demand the poet had no means of complying. 
Mr. Ballantyne, the chief magistrate of Ayr, (the same gentleman to whom 
the poem on the Twa Brigs of Ayr was afterwards inscribed), offered to 
furnish the money ; and probably this kind offer would have been accepted. 
But, ere this matter could be arranged, the prospects of the poet were, in 
a very unexpected manner, altered and improved. 

Burns went to pay a parting visit to Dr. Laurie, minister of Loudoun, 
a gentleman from whom, and his accomplished family, he had previously 
received many kind attentions. After taking farewell of this benevolent 
circle, the poet proceeded, as the night was setting in, " to convey his 
chest," as he says, " so far on the road to Greenock, where he was to em- 
bark in a few days for America." And it was under these circumstances 
that he composed the song already referred to, which he meant as his lare- 
well dirge to his native land, and which ends thus : — 

*' Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales, 
Her heathy moors and winding vales. 
The scenes where wretched fancy roves, 
Pursuing past unhappy loves. 

* Variation. Tho lily's hue and rose's dye 

Bespoke the lats o' Bc^llochmyle. 



xlii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



I Farewell, my friends ! farewell, my foes ! 

j My peace with these — my love with those — 

j The bursting' tears my heart declare, 

I I Farewell, the bonny banks of Ayr." 

j I Dr. Laurie had given Burns much good counsel, and what comfort he 
I i could, at parting ; but prudently said nothing of an effort which he had 
! I previously made in his behalf He had sent a copy of the poems, with a 

I ! sketch of the author's history, to his friend Dr. Thomas Blacklock of Edin- 
burgh, with a request that he would introduce both to the notice of those 

j persons whose opinions Avere at the time most listened to in regard to lite- 
rary productions in Scotland, in the hope that, by their intervention, Burns 
might 3^ct be rescued from the necessity of expatriating himself Dr. 
Blacklock's answer reached Dr. Laurie a day or two after Burns had made 
his visit, and composed his dirge ; and it was not yet too late. Laurie 
forwarded it immediately to Mr. Gavin Hamilton, who carried it to Bums. 

II It is as follows : — 

I I "I ought to have acknowledged your favour long ago, not only as a tes- 
i I vimony of your kind remembrance, but as it gave me an opportunity of 
1 i sharing one of the finest, and perhaps one of the most genuine entertain- 
! j ments of which the human mind is susceptible. A number of avocations 
' I retarded my progress in reading the poems ; at last, however, I have finish- 
I I ed that pleasing perusal. Many instances have I seen of Nature's force or 
j ! beneficence exerted under numerous and formidable disadvantages ; but 
I i none equal to that with which you have been kind enough to present me. 
! I There is a pathos and delicacy in his serious poems, a vein of wit and hu- 
I I mour in those of a more festive turn, which cannot be too much admired, 
I j nor too warmly approved ; and I think I shall never open the book without 
I I feeling my astonishment renewed and increased. It was my wish to have 
j j expressed my approbation in verse ; but whether from declining life, or a 
I ! temporary depression of spirits, it is at present out of my power to accom- 
I I plish that agreeable intention. 

; j " Mr. Stewart, Professor of Morals in this University, had formerly 

I j read me three of the poems, and I had desired him to get my name in- 
! ' serted among the subscribers ; but whether this was done or not, I never 
I ! could learn. I have little intercourse with Dr. Blair, but will take care to 
have the poems communicated to him by the intervention of some mutual 
friend. It has been told me by a gentleman, to whom 1 showed the per 
formances, and who sought a copy with diligence and ardour, that the 
whole impression is already exhausted. It were, therefore, much to be 
wished, for the sake of the young man, that a second edition, more nume- 
rous than the former, could immediately be printed ; as it appears certain 
that its intrinsic merit, and the exertions of the author's friends, might give 
it a more universal circulation than any thing of the kind which has been 
published in my memory." 

We have already seen with what surprise and delight Burns read this 
generous letter. Although he had ere this conversed with more than one 
person of established literary reputation, and received from them atten- 
tions, for which he was ever after grateful, — the despondency of his spirit 
appears to have remained as dark as ever, up to the very hour when his land- 
lord produced Dr. Blacklock's letter. — " There was never," Heron says, 
'■• perhaj)s, one among all mankind whom you might more truly have called 
an angel upon earth than Dr. Blacklock. He was guileless and innocent 



I i 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xlitt 

ts a child, yet endowed with manly sagacity and penetration. His heart 
was a perpetual spring of benignity. His feelings were all tremblingly 
alive to the sense of the sublime, the beautiful, the tender, the pious, the 
virtuous. Poetry was to him the dear solace of perpetual blindness." Tht 
was not the man to act as Walpole did to Chatterton ; to discourage witl 
feeble praise, and in order to shift off the trouble of future patronage, to 
bid the poet relinquish poetry and mind his plough. — " Dr. Blacklock," 
says Burns himself, *' belonged to a set of critics, for whose applause I had 
not dared to hope. His opinion that I would meet with encouragement in 
Edinburgh, fired me so much, that away I posted for that city, without a 
single acquaintance, or a single letter of introduction. The baneful star 
that had so long shed its blasting influence on my zenith, for once made 8 
revolution to the nadir." 



CHAPTER V. 

I I Contents The Poet winters in Eflinhnrgh, 178G-7 — By his advent, the condition 0/ that 

I city. Literary, Legal, Philosophical, Patrician, and Pedantic, is lighted up, as by a meteor 

I — He is in the full tide of his fame there, and for a wnile caressed by the fashionatfle^^^ 

I What happens to him generally in that new world, and his behaviour under the varying and 

! very trying circumstances — The tavern life then greatly followed — The Poet tempted beyond 

N all former experience by bacchanals of every degree — His conversational talent universally 

admitted, as not the least of his talents — The Ladies like to be carried off their feet by it, 
while the philosophers hardly keep theirs — Edition of 1500 copies by Creech, which yields 
much money to the Poet — Resolves to visit the classic scenes of his own country — Assailed 
Kith thick-coming visions of a reflux to bear him back to the region of poverty and seclusioru 



*' Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow*r8, 
Where once l.eneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sovereign powers ; 
From marking wildly -scatter'd flow'rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd. 
And singing, lone, the lingering hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade." 

' I Burns Ibund several of his old Ayrshire acquaintances established in 
1 Edinburgh, and, I suppose, felt himself constrained to give himself up 
I for a brief space to their society. He printed, however, without delay, a 
! prospectus of a second edition of his poems, and being introduced by 
i Mr. Dalrymple of Orangefield to the Earl of Glencairn, that amiable 
! nobleman easily persuaded Creech, then the chief bookseller in Edinburgh, 
i to undertake the publication. The Honourable Henry Erskine, Dean of 
! the Faculty of Advocates, the most agreeable of companions, and the most 
I I benignant of wits, took him also, as the poet expresses it, " under his 
I j wing." The kind Blacklock received him with all the warmth of paternal 
! I affection, and introduced him to Dr. Blair, and other eminent literati; 
his subscription lists were soon filled ; Lord Glencairn made interest 
with the Caledonian Hunt, (an association of the most distinguished 
members of the northern aristocracy), to accept the dedication of the forth- 
coming edition, and to subscribe individually for copies. Several noblemen, 
especially of the west of Scotland, came forward with subscription-moneys 
considerably beyond the usual rate. In so small a capital, where every 
body knows every body, that which becomes a favourite topic in one 
leading circle of society, soon excites an universal interest ; and before 
Burns had been a fortnight in Edinburgh, we find him writing to i'lis 
earliest patron, Gavin Hamilton, in these terms : — « For my own affairs, I 
am in a fair way of becoming as eminent as Thomas a Kempis or John Ban- 
yan ; and you may expect henceforth to see my birth-day incribed among 
the wonderful events in the Poor Robin and Aberdeen Almanacks, along 
vith the Black Monday, and the Battle of Bothwell Bridge." 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. x v i | 



! I 



It is but a mf;lancIioly business to trace among the records of literary 
history, the manner in which most great original geniuses have been greet- 
ed on their first appeals to the world, by the contemporary arbiters oi 
taste ; coldly and timidly indeed have the sympathies of professional criti- 
cism flowed on most such occasions in past times and in the present : But 
the reception of Burns was worthy of The Man of Feeling. Mr. Henry 
Mackenzie was a man of genius, and of a polished, as well as a liberal taste. 
After alluding to the provincial circulation and reputation of the first edi- 
tion of the poems, Mr. Mackenzie thus wrote in the Lounger, an Edin 
burgh periodical of that period : — " I hope I shall not be thought to assume 
too much, if I endeavour to place him in a higher point of view, to call 
for a verdict of his country on the merits of his works, and to claim kr 
him those honours which their excellence appears to deserve. In men- 
tioning the circumstance of his humble station, I mean not to rest his pre- 
tensions solely on that title, or to urge the merits of his poetry, when con- 
sidered in relation to the lowness of his birth, and the little opportunity of 
improvement which his education could afford. These particulars, indeed, 
must excite our wonder at his productions ; but his poetry, considered ab- 
stractedly, and without the apologies arising from his situation, seems to 
me fully entitled to command our feelings, and to obtain our applause." I 

After quoting various passages, in some of which his readers 

" must discover a high tone of feeling, and power, and energy of expres- 
sion, particularly and strongly characteristic of the mind and th^ voice of 
a poet," and others as shewing " the power of genius, not less admirable 
in tracing the manners, than in painting the passions, or in drawing the I i 
scenery of nature," and " with what uncommon penetration and sagacity | ! 
this heaven-taught ploughman, from his humble and unlettered condition, \ \ 
had looked on men and manners," the critic concluded with an eloquent ; | 
appeal in behalf of the poet personally : " To repair," said he, " the wrong I I 
of suffering or neglected merit ; to call forth genius from the obscurity in j i 
whtch it had pined indignant, and place it where it may profit or delight | I 
the world — these are exertions which give to wealth an enviable superiori- j i 
ty, to greatness and to patronage a laudable pride."* 1 

The appeal thus made for such a candidate was not unattended to. ! I 
Burns was only a very short time in Edinburgh when he thus wrote to one I i 
of his early friends : — '• I was, when first honoured with your notice, too i j 
obscure ; now I tremble lest I should be ruined by being dragged too sud- \ 
denly into the glare of polite and learned observation ;" and he concludes j i 
the same lettf r with an ominous prayer for " better health and more spi- 
rits."! — Two or three weeks later, we find him writing as follows : — " (Ja- 
nuary 14, 1787). I went to a Mason Lodge yesternight, where the M.W 
Grand Master Charteris, and all the Grand Lodge of Scotland visited. The 
meeting was numerous and elegant : all the different lodges about town were 
prcFent in all their pomp. The Grand Master, who presided with great so- 
lemnity, among other general toasts gave, ' Taledonia and Caledonia's bard, 
Brother Burns,' which rung through the whole assembly with multiplied 
honours and repeated acclamations. As I had no idea such a thing would 
happen, I was downright thunderstruck ; and trembling in every nerve, 
made the best return in my power. Just as I had finished, one of the 



• The Lounger for Saturday, December 9, 1786. 

+ Letter to Mr. BaUantyne of Ayr, December 13, 1786 ; Reliques, p. 12. 



xlv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS 

Grand Officers said, so loud that I could hear, with a most comforting ac 
cent, ' very well indeed,' which set me something to rights again." — And 
a few weeks later still, he is thus addressed by one of his old associate* 
who was meditating a visit to Edinburgh. " By all accounts, it will be a 
difficult matter to get a sight of you at all, unless your company is bespoke 
a week beforehand. There are great rumours here of your intimacy with 
the Duchess of Gordon, and other ladies of distinction. I am really told 
that — 

*' Cards to invite, fly by thousands each night ;" 

and if you had one, there would also, I suppose, be * bribes for your old 
secretary.' I observe you are resolved to make hay while the sun shines, 
and avoid, if possible, the fate of poor Ferguson. Qucerenda pecunia pri- 
mum est — Virtus post nmnmos, is a good maxim to thrive by. You seem- 
ed to despise it while in this country ; but, probably, some philosophers 
in Edinburgh have taught you better sense." 

In this proud career, however, the popular idol needed no slave to whis- 
per whence he had risen, and whither he was to return in the ebb of the 
spring-tide of fortune. His " prophetic soul" carried always a sufficient 
memento. He bore all his honours in a manner worthy of himself ; and 
of this the testimonies are so numerous, that the only difficulty is that ot 
selection. " The attentions he received," says Mr. Dugald Stewart, " from 
all ranks and descriptions of persons, were such as would have turned any 
head but his own. I cannot say that I could perceive any unfavourable effect 
which they left on his mind. He retained the same simplicity of manners 
and appearance which had struck me so forcibly when 1 first saw him in the 
country ; nor did he seem to feel any additional self-importance from the 
number and rank of his new acquaintance." — Professor Walker, who met him 
for the first time, early in the same season, at breakfast in Dr. Blacklock's 
tiouse, has thus recorded his impressions : — " I was not much struck with his 
first appearance, as I had previously heard it described. His person, though 
strong and well knit, and much superior to what might be expected in a 
ploughman, was still rather coarse in its outline. His stature, from want 
of setting up, appeared to be only of the middle size, but was rather above 
it. His motions were firm and decided, and though without any preten- 
sions to grace, were at the same time so free from clownish constraint, as 
to show that he had not always been confined to the society of his profes- 
sion. His countenance was not of that elegant cast, which is most fre- 
quent among the upper ranks, but it was manly and intelligent, and marked 
oy a thoughtful gravity which shaded at times into sternness. In his large 
dark eye the most striking index of his genius resided It was full of mind ; 
and would have been singularly expressive, under the management of one 
who could employ it with more art, for the purpose of expression. He 
was plainly, but properly dressed, in a style mid-way between the holiday 
costume of a farmer, and that of the company with which he now associ- 
ated. His black hair, without powder, at a time when it was very gene- 
rally worn, was tied behind, and spread upon his forehead. Upon the 
whole, from his person, physiognomy, and dress, had I met him near a sea- 
port, and been required to guess his condition, I should have probably con- 
jectured him to be the master of a merchant vessel of the most respectable 
class. In no part of his manner was there the slightest degree of aifecta- 
tion, nor could a stranger have suspected, from any thing in his behaviour 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURXS. xlvii 



or conversation, that he had been for some months the favourite of all the 
fashionable circles of a metropolis. In conversation he was powerful. His 
conceptions and expression were of corresponding vigour, and on all subjects 
were as remote as possible from common places. Though somewhat autho- 
ritative, it was in a way which gave little offence, and was readily imputed 
to his inexperience in those modes of smoothing dissent and softening asser- 
tion, which are important characteristics of polished manners. After break- 
fast I requested him to communicate some of his unpublished pieces, and 
he recited his farewell song to the Banks of Ayr, introducing It with a des- 
cription of the circumstances in which It was composed, more striking than | | 
the poem itself. I paid particular attention to his recitation, which waa i I 
plain, slow, articulate, and forcible, but without any eloquence or art. He { ' 
did not always lay the emphasis with propriety, nor did he humour the j i 
sentiment by the variations of his voice He was standing, during the time. | . 
with his face towards the window, to which, and not to his auditors, he di- { j 
rected his eye — thus depriving himself of any additional effect which the l | 
language of his composition might have borrowed from the language of his i I 
countenance. In this he resembled the generality of singers in ordinary j j 
company, who, to shun any charge of affectation, withdraw all meaning i j 
from their features, and lose the advantage by which vocal performers on j j 
the stage augment the impression, and give energy to the sentiment of the 
^ong. The day after my first introduction to Burns, I supped in company 
with him at Dr. Blair's. The other guests were very few, and as each 
had been invited chiefly to have an opportunity of meeting with the poet, 
the Doctor endeavoured to draw him out, and to make him the central 
figure of the group. Though he therefore furnished the greatest propor- 
tion of the conversation, he did no more than what he saw evidently was 
expected." * 

To these reminiscences I shall now add those of one to whom Is always 
readily accorded the willing ear, Sir Walter Scott. — He thus writes : — 
" As for Burns, I may truly say, Virgilium vidi tantum. I was a lad of 
fifteen in 1786-7, when he came first to Edinburgh, but had sense and 
feeling enough to be much interested In his poetry, and would have given j | 
the world to know him ; but I had very little acquaintance with any lite- j | 
rary people, and still less with the gentry of the west country, the two i i 
sets that he most frequented. Mr. Thomas Grierson was at that time I ; 
a clerk of my father's He knew Burns, and promised to ask him to liis i 
lodgings to dinner, but had no opportunity to keep his word ; otherwise I j 
might have seen more of this distinguished man. As It was, 1 saw him | 
one day at the late venerable Professor Fergusson's, where there were se- i 
veral gentlemen of literary reputation, among whom I remember the cele- I | 
brated Mr. Dugald Stewart. Of course we youngsters sat silent, looked, | 
and listened. The only thing I remember which was remarkable in Burns's i | 
manner, was the effect produced upon him by a print of Bunbury's, re- i | 
presenting a soldier lying dead on the snow, his dog sitting in misery Dn 
one side, — on the other, his widow, with a child In her arms. These Imes 
were >»ritten beneath, — 

" Cold on Canadian hills, or JMinden's plain, 
Perhaps that parent wept her soldier slain — 
Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew, 
The big drops, mingling with the milk He drew, 

* Morrison's Burns, vol. i. pp. Ixxi, Ixxii. 



xiviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

Gave the sad presage of his future years, 
The child of misery baptized in tears." 

" Burns seemed much affected by the print, or ratlier the ideas which 
it suggested to his mind. He actually shed tears. He asked whose the 
lines were, and it chanced tliat nobody but myself remembered that they 
occur in a half-forgotten poem of Langhorne's, called by the unpromising 
title of The Justice of Peace. I whispered my information to a friend 
present, who mentioned it to Burns, who rewarded me with a look and 
a word, ^^•hich, though of mere civility, I then received, and still recollect, 
with very great pleasure. 

" His person was strong and robust ; his manners rustic, not clownish ; 
a r^ort of dignified plainness and simplicity, which received part of its ef- 
fect, perhaps, from one's knowledge of his extraordinary talents. His 
features are represented in Mr. Nasmyth's picture, but to me it conveys 
the idea, that they are diminished as if seen in perspective. I think his 
countenance was more massive than it looks in any of the portraits. I 
would have taken the poet, had I not known what he was, for a very sa- 
gacious country farmer of the old Scotch school, i. e. none of your modern 
agriculturists, who keep labourers for their drudgery, but the douce gude- 
man who held his own plough. There was a strong expression of sense and 
shrewdness in all his lineaments ; the eye alone, 1 think, indicated the 
poetical character and temperament. It was large, and of a dark cast, 
whicli glowed (1 say literally glowed) when he spoke with feeling or inte- 
rest. 1 never saw such another eye in a human head, though I have seen 
the most distinguished men of my time. His conversation expressed perfect 
self-confidence, Avithout the slightest presumption. Among the men who 
were the most learned of their time and country, he expressed himself 
witli perfect firmness, but without the least intrusive forwardness ; and 
when he differed in opinion, he did not hesitate to express it firmly, yet at 
the same time with modesty. I do not remember any part of his conver- 
sation distinctly enough to be quoted, nor did I ever see him again, except 
in the street, where he did not recognise me, as I could not expect he 
should. He was much caressed in Edinburgh, but (considering what lite- 
rary emoluments have been since his day) the efforts made for his relief 
were extremel}^ trifling. I remember on this occasion I mention, 1 thought 
Burns's acquaintance with English Poetry was rather limited, and also, that 
having twenty times the abilities of Allan Ramsay and of terguson, he 
talked of them with too much humility as his models ; there was, doubt- 
less, national predilection in his estimate- This is all I can tell you about 
Burns. I have only to add, that his dress corresponded with his manner. 
He was like a farmer dressed in his best to dine with the Laird. 1 do not 
speak in malam partem^ when I say, I never saw a man in company with 
his superiors in station and information, more perfectly free from either 
the reality cr the affectation of embarrassment. I was told, but did not 
observe it, that his address to females was extremely deferential, and al- 
ways with a turn either to the pathetic or humorous, which engaged their 
attention particularl3\ I have heard the late Duchess of Gordon remark 
this. — I do not know any thing I can add to these recollections of forty 
vears since." — 

There can be no doubt that Burns made his first appearance at a period 
highly favourable for his reception as a British, and especially as a Scottish 
poet. Nearly forty years had elapsed sin e the death of Thomson : — 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xlix 



Collins, Gray, Goldsmith, had successively disappeared :— Dr. Johnson I I 

tiad belied the rich promise of his early appearance, and confined him- | j 

self to prose; and Cowper had hardly begun to be recognized as having i | 

any considerable pretensions to fill the long-vacant throne in England. At ! | 

home — without derogation from the merits either of Douglas or the Min- \ \ 

strel, be it said — men must have gone back at least three centuries to find i I 

a Scottish poet at all entitled to be considered as of that high order to which | i 

the generous criticism of Mackenzie at once admitted " the Ayrshire j 

Ploughman." Of the form and garb of his composition, much, unqueslion- j ; 
ably and avowedly, was derived from his more immediate predecessors, ' 

Ramsay and Ferguson : but there was a bold mastery of hand in his pic- j ! 

turesque descriptions, to produce any thing equal to which it was neces- | i 

sary to recall the days of Christ's Kirk on the Green, and Peebles to the \ \ 

Play ; and in his more solemn pieces, a depth of inspiration, and a massive j | 

energy of language, to which the dialect of his country had been a stranger, | | 

at least since " Dunbar the Mackar." The Muses of Scotland had never < j 

indeed been silent ; and the ancient minstrelsy of the land, of which a slen- | | 

der portion had as yet been committed to the safeguard of the press, was ! | 
handed from generation to generation, and preserved, in many a fragment, \ 

faithful images of the peculiar tenderness, and jjcculiar humour, of the na- | ! 

tional fancy and character — precious representations, which Burns himself \ \ 

never surpassed in his happiest efforts. But these were fragments ; and i j 

with a scanty handful of exceptions, the best of them, at least of the seri- \ i 

ous kind, were very ancient. Among tlie numberless effusions of the ! ' 

Jacobite Muse, valuable as we now consider them for the record of man- j ! 

ners and events, it would be difficult to point out half-a-dozen strains j i 

worthy, for poetical excellence alone, of a place among the old chivalrous [ ; 

ballads of the Southern, or even of the Highland Border. Generations had { j 

passed away since any Scottish poet had appealed to the sympathies of hi& | \ 

countrymen in a lofty Scottish strain. • | 

The dialect itself had been hardly dealt with. " It is my opinion," said i j 

Dr. Geddes, " that those who, for almost a century past, have written in i \ 

Scotch, Allan Ramsay not excepted, have not duly discriminated the ge- j | 

nuine idiom from its vulgarisms. They seem to have acted a similar part ' I 

to certain pretended imitators of Spenser and Milton, who fondly imagine } j 
that they are copying from these great models, when they only mimic their 
antique mode of spelling, their obsolete terms, and their irregular construc- 
tions." And although 1 cannot well guess what the doctor considered as 
the irregular constructions of Milton, there can be no doubt of the general 
justice of his observations. Ramsay and Ferguson wire both men of hum- 
ble condition, the latter of the meanest, the former of no very elegant 
habits ; and the dialect which had once pleased the ears of kings, who 
themselves did not disdain to display its powers and elegances in verse 
did not come untarnished through their hands. Ferguson, who was cn- 
j tirely town-bred, smells more of the Cowgate than of the country ; and 

pleasing as Ramsay's rustics are, he appears rather to have observed the | 

surface of rural manners, in casual excursions to Pennycuikand the Hun I j 

ter's Tryste, than to have expressed the results of intimate knowledge anr ! 

sympathy. His dialect was a somewhat incongruous mixture of the Uppei j 

j Ward of Lanarkshire and the Luckenbooths ; and he could neither write I 

I English verses, nor engraft English phraseology on his Scotch, without be- | 
i traying a lamentable want of skill in the use of his instruments. It was re 



I 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

served for Burns to interpret the inmost soul of the Scottish peasant in all 
its moods, and in verse exquisitely and intensely Scottish, without degrad- 
ing either his sentiments or his language with one touch of vulgarity. Such is 
the delicacy of native taste, and the power of a truly masculine genius. This 
is the more remarkable, when we consider that the dialect of Burns's na- 
tive district is, in all mouths but his own, a peculiarly offensive one. The 
few poets * whom the west of Scotland had produced in the old time, were 
all men of high condition ; and who, of course, used the language, not of 
their own villages, buc of Holyrood. Their productions, moreover, in o 
far as they have been produced, had nothing to do with the peculiar cha- 
lacter and feelings of the men of the west. As Burns himself has said, — -^ 
" It is somewhat singular, that in Lanark, Renfrew, Ayr, &:c. there is 
scarcely an old song or tune, which, from the title, &c. can be guessed to 
belong to, or be the production of, those counties." 

The history of Scottish literature, from the union of the crowns to that 
of the kingdoms, has not yet been made the subject of any separate work 
at all worthy of its importance ; nay, however much we are indebted to the 
learned labours oi' Pinkerton, Irving, and others, enough of the general ob- 
scurity of which Warton complained still continues, to the no small discre- 
dit of so accomplished a nation. But how miserably the litei^ature of the 
country was affected by the loss of the court under whose immediate pa- 
tronage it had, in almost all preceding times, found a measure of protec- 
tion that will ever do honour to the memory of the unfortunate house of 
Stuart, appears to be indicated with sufficient plainness in the single fact, 
that no man can point out any Scottish author of the first rank in all the 
long period which intervened between Buchanan and Hume. The re- 
moval of the chief nobility and gentry, consequent on the Legislative Union, 
appeared to destroy our last hopes as a separate nation, possessing a se- 
parate literature of our own ; nay, for a time, to have all but extinguished 
the flame of intellectual exertion and ambition. Long torn and harassed 
by religious and political feuds, this people had at last heard, as many be- 
lieved, the sentence of irremediable degradation pronounced by the lips of 
their own prince and parliament. The universal spirit of Scotland was 
humbled; the unhappy insurrections of 1715 and 1745 revealed the full 
extent of her internal disunion ; and England took, in some respects, mer- 
ciless advantage of the fallen. 

Time, however, passed on ; and Scotland, recovering at last from the 
blow which had stunned her energies, began to vindicate her pretensions, 
in the only departments which had been left open to her, with a zeal and 
a success which will ever distinguish one of the brightest pages of her his- 
tory. Deprived of every national honour and distinction which it was pos- 
sible to remove — all the high branches of external ambition lopped off, — 
sunk at last, as men thought, effectually into a province, willing to take 
law yrith passive submission, in letters as well as polity, from her powerful 
sister — the old kingdom revived suddenly from her stupor, and once more 
asserted her name in reclamations which England was compelled not only 
i to hear, but to applaud, and " wherewith all Europe rung from side to 
side," at the moment when a national poet came forward to profit by the 
reflux of a thousand half-forgotten sympathies — amidst the full joy of a na- 
tional pride revived and re-established beyond the dream of hope. 

• Such as Kennedy, Shaw, Montgomery, and, more lately, Hamilton of iJilbertfield. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURN'S. H 

It will always reflect honour on the galaxy of eminent men of letters. 
who, in their various departments, shed lustre at that period on the name 
of Scotland, that they suffered no pedantic prejudices to interfere witij 
their deception of Burns. Had he not appeared personally among them, 
it may be reasonably doubted whether this would have been so. The\ 
were men, generally speaking, of very social habits ; living together in a 
small capital ; nay, almost ail d Cit-.u. , \j ■• .">bout one street, maintaining 
friendly intercourse continually ; not a few of them considerably addicted 
to the pleasures which have been called, by way of excellence, I presume, 
convivial. Burns's poetry might have procured him access to these circles ; 
but it was the extraordinary resources he displayed in conversation, the 
strong vigorous sagacity of his observations on life and manners, the splen- 
dour of his wit, and the glowing energy of his eloquence when his feelings 
were stirred, that made him the object of serious admiration among these 
practised masters of the arts of falk. There were several of them who 
probably adopted in their hearts the opinion of Newton, that " poetry is 
ingenious nonsense." Adam Smith, for one, could have had no very ready 
respect at the service of such an unproductive labourer as a maker of Scot- 
tish ballads ; but the stateliest of these philosophers had enough to do to 
maintain the attitude of equality, when brought into personal contact with 
Burns's gigantic understanding ; and every one of them whose impressions 
on the subject have been recorded, agrees in pronouncing his conversation 
to have been the most remarkable thing about him. And yet it is amus- 
ing enough to trace the lingering reluctance of some of these polished scho- 
lars, about admitting, even to themselves, in his absence, what it is cer- 
tain they all felt sufficiently when they were actually in his presence. It 
is difficult, for example, to read without a smile that letter of Mr. Dugald 
Stewart, in which he describes himself and Mr. Alison as being surprised 
to discover that Burns, after reading the latter author's elegant Essay on 
Taste, had really been able to form some shrewd enough notion of the 
general principles of the association of ideas. 

Burns would probabl}'^ have been more satisfied with himself in these 
learned societies, had he been less addicted to giving free utterance in con- 
versation to the very feelings which formed the noblest inspirations of his 
poetry. His sensibility was as tremblingly exquisite, as his sense was 
masculine and solid ; and he seems to have ere long suspected that the pro- 
fessional metaphysicians who applauded his rapturous bursts, surveyed them 
in reality with something of the same feeling which may be supposed to 
attend a skilful surgeon's inspection of a curious specimen of morbid ana- 
tomy. Why should he lay his inmost heart thus open to dissectors, who 
took special care to keep the knife from their own breasts ? The secret 
blush that overspread his haughty countenance when such suggestions oc- 
cured to him in his solitary hours, may be traced in the opening lines of a 
diary which he began to keep ere he had been long in Edinburgh. " Aj}ril 
9, 1787. — As I have seen a good deal of human life in Edinburgh, a 
great many characters which are new to one bred up in the shades of life, 
as I have been, I am determined to take down my remarks on the spot. 
Gray observes, in a letter to Mr. Palgrave, that, ' half a word fixed, upon, 
or near the spot, is worth a cart-load of recollection.' I don't know how 
it is with the world in general, but witli me, making my remarks is by no 
means a solitary pleasure. I want some oiie to laugh with me, some one 
to be grave with me, some one to please me and help my discrimination. 



Hi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS, 

with his or her own remark, and at times, no doubt, to admire my acute- 
ness and penetration. The world are so busied with selfish pursuits, am- 
bition, vanity, interest, or pleasure, that very few think it worth their while 
to make any observation on what passes around them, except where that 
observation is a sucker, or branch, of the darling plant they are rearing in 
their fancy. Nor am I sure, notwithstanding all the sentimental flights of 
novel-writers, and the sage philosophy of moralists, whether we are cap- 
able of so intimate and cordial a coalition of friendship, as that one man may 
pour out his bosom, his every thought and floating fancy, his very inmost 
soul, with unreserved confidence, to another, without hazard of losing parr 
3f that respect which man deserves from man ; or, from the unavoidable 
imperfections attending human nature, of one day repenting his confidence. 
For these reasons 1 am determined to make these pages my confidant. 
I will sketch every character that any way strikes me, to the best of my 
power, with unshrinking justice. 1 will insert anecdotes, and take down 
remarks, in the old law phrase, ivithout feud or favour. — Where I hit on 
any thing clever, my own applause will, in some measure, feast my vanity • 
and. begging Patroclus' and Achates' pardon, I think a lock and key a se- 
curity, at least equal to the bosom of any friend whatever." And the same 
lurking thorn of suspicion peeps out elsewhere in this complaint : " I know 
not how it is ; I find I can win liking — but not respect." 

" Burns (says a great living poet, in commenting on the free style of Dr. 
Currie) was a man of extraordinary genius, whose birth, education, and em- 
ployments had placed and kept him in a situation far below that in which the 
writers and readers of expensive volumes are usually found. Critics upon 
works of fiction have laid it down as a rule that remoteness of place, in 
fixing the choice of a subject, and in prescribing the mode of treating it, is 
equal in erTect to distance of time ; — restraints may be thrown off accord- 
ingly. Judge then of the delusions which artificial distinctions impose, 
when to a man like Dr. Currie, writing with views so honourable, the so- 
cial condition of the individual of whom he was treating, could seem to 
place him at such a distance from the exalted reader, that ceremony might 
be discarded with him, and his memory sacrificed, as it were, almost with- 
out compunction. This is indeed to be crushed beneath the furrow's 
weight."* It would be idle to suppose that the feelings here ascribed, and 
justly, no question, to the amiable and benevolent Currie, did not often 
find their way into the bosoms of those persons of superior condition and 
attainments, with whom Burns associated at the period when he first e- 
merged into the blaze of reputation ; and what foiind its way into men's 
bosoms was not likely to avoid betraying itself to the perspicacious glance 
of the proud peasant. How perpetually he was alive to the dread of being 
looked down upon as a man, even by those who most zealously applauded 
the ivorks of his genius, might perhaps be traced through the whole se- 
quence of his letters. When writing to men of high station, at least, he 
preserves, in every instance, the attitude of self-defence. But it is only 
in his own secret tables that we have the fibres of his heart laid bare ; and 
the cancer of this jealousy is seen distinctly at its painful work : habemus 
renin et confitenfem. " There are few of the sore evils under the sun give 
me more uneasiness and chagrin than the comparison how a man of genius, 
nay, o^ avowed worth, is received everywhere, with the reception which a 

• Air. WiA-dsworth's letter to a friend of Burns, p. 12. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Vm \ 

mere ordinary character, decorated with the trapy)ings and futile distinc- ' j 
tions of fortune, meets. I imagine a man of abilities, his breast glowing ! 
with lionest pride, conscious that men are born equal, still giving honour ' 
to whom honour is due ; he meets, at a great man's table, a Squire some- i 
thing, or a Sir somebody ; he knows the noble landlord, at heart, gives the | 
bard, or whatever he is, a share of his good wishes, beyond, perhaps, any [ 
one at table ; yet how will it mortify him to see a fellow, whose abili- j 
ties would scarcely have made an eightpenny tailor, and whose heart is not j 
worth three farthings, meet with attention and notice, that are withheld ! 
from the son of genius and poverty ? The noble Glencairn has wounded i 
me to the soul here, because I dearly esteem, respect, and love him. He ' 
showed so much attention — engrossing attention, one day, to the only ' 
blockhead at table, (the whole company consisted of his lordship, dunder- I 
pate, and myself/, that I was within half a point of throwing down my gage 
of contemptuous defiance ; but he shook my hand, and looked so benevo- 
lently good at parting — God bless him ! though I should never see him 
more, I shall love him until my dying day ! I am pleased to think I am so 
capable of the throes of gratitude, as I am miserably deficient in some other 
virtues. With Dr Blair I am more at my ease. I never respect him with 
humble veneration ; but when he kindly interests himself in my welfare, or 
still more, when he descends from his pinnacle, and meets me on equal 
ground in conversation, my heart overflows with what is called liking. 
When he neglects me for the mere carcass of greatness, or when his eye 
measures the difference of our points of elevation, I say to myself, with 
scarcely any emotion, what do I care for him, or his pomp either ?" " It 
is not easy (says Burns) forming an exact judgment of any one ; but, in 
my opinion, Dr. Blair is merely an astonishing proof of what industry and 
application can do. Natural parts like his are frequently to be met with ; 
his vanity is proverbially known among his own acquaintances ; but he is 
justly at the head of what may be called fine writing, and a critic of the 
first, the very first rank in prose ; even in poetry a bard of nature's mak- 
ing can only take the pass of him. He has a heart, not of the very finest 
water, but far from being an ordinary one. In short, he is a truly worthy 
and most respectable character." 

A nice speculator on the ' follies of the wise,' D'Israeli, * says — " Once 
we were nearly receiving from the hand of genius the most curious sketches 
of the temper, the irascible humours, the delicacy of soul, even to its 
shadowiness, from the warm sbozzos of Burns, when he began a diary of 
his heart — a narrative of characters and events, and a chronology of his 
emotions. It was natural for such a creature of sensation and passion to 
project such a regular task, but quite impossible to get through it." This 
most curious document, it is to be observed, has not yet been printed en- 
tire. Another generation will, no doubt, see the whole of the confession ; 
however, what has already been given, it may be surmised, indicates suf- 
ficiently the complexion of Burns's prevailing moods during his moments 
of retirement at this interesting period of his history. It was in such a 
rnood (they recurred often enough) that he thus .'eproached " Nature, par- 
tial nature :" — 

" Thou givest the ass his hide, the snail his shell ; 
The invenom'd wasp victorious guards his cell : 

• D'Israeli on the Literary Charatter, vol. i. p. 136. 



tiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS 

But, oh ! thou bitter stepmother, and hard. 
To thy poor fenceless naked child, the bard." . 
In naked feeling and in aching pride, 
He bears the unbroken blast from every side.' 

i ! No blast piercrd this haughty soul so sharply as the contumely of conde 
I Ecension. 

! One of the poet's remarks, when he first came to Edinburgh, has been 
I handed down to us by Cromek. — It was, " that between the men of rustic 
life and the polite world he obser 'ed little difference — that in the former, 
! though unpolished by fashion aad anenlightened by science, he had found 
! much observation, and much intelligence — but a refined and accomplished 
! woman was a thing almost new to him, and of which he had formed but a 
I very inadequate idea." To be pleased, is the old and the best receipt how 
i to please ; and there is abundant evidence that Burns's success, among the 
high-born ladies of Edinburgh, was much greater than among the " stately 
patricians," as he calls them,, of his own sex. The vivid expression of one 
of them has almost become proverbial — that she never met with a man, 
" v/hose conversation so completely carried her off her feet," as Burns's. 
I The late Duchess of Gordon, who was remarkable for her own conversa- 
tional talent, as well as for her beauty and address, is supposed to be here 
referred to. But even here, he was destined to feel ere long something of 
the fickleness of fashion. He confessed to one of his old friends, ere the 
season was over, that some who had caressed him the most zealously, no 
longer seemed to know him, when he bowed in passing their carriages, 
and many more acknowledged his salute but coldly. 

It is but too true, that ere this season was over, Burns had formed con- 
nexions in Edinburgh which could not have been regarded with much ap 
probation by the eminent literati, in whose society his debut had made so 
powerful an impression. But how much of the blame, if serious blame, 
indeed, there was in the matter, ought to attach to his own fastidious jea- 
lousy — how much to the mere caprice of human favour, we have scanty 
means of ascertaining : No doubt, both had their share; audit is also suf- 
ficiently apparent that there were many points in Burns's conversational 
habits which men, accustomed to the delicate observances of refined so- 
ciety, might be more willing to tolerate under the first excitement of per- 
sonal curiosity, than from any very deliberate estimate of the claims of such 
a genius, under such circumstances developed He by no means restricted 
his sarcastic observations on those whom he encountered in the world to 
the confidence of his note-book ; but startled polite ears with the utterance 
of audacious epigrams, far too witty not to obtain general circulation in so 
small a society as that of the northern capital, far too bitter not to produce 
deep resentment, far too numerous not to spread fear almost as widely as 
admiration. Even when nothing was farther from his thoughts than to in- 
flict pain, his ardour often carried him headlong into sad scrapes ; witness, 
for example, the anecdote given by Professor Walker, of his entering into 
a long discussion of the merits of the popular preachers of the day, at the 
table of Dr. IMair, and enthusiastically avowing his low opinion of all the 
rest in comparison with Dr. Blair's own colleague * and most formidable 
rival — a man, certainly, endowed with extraordinary graces of voice and 
manner, a generous and amiable strain of feeling, and a copious flow ol 
language ; but having no pretensions either to the general accomplishmentr 

* Ori Robert Walker. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. b 

for Aiiich Blair was honoured in a most accomplished society, or to the 
polished elegance which he first introduced into the eloquence of the Scot- 
tish pulpit. Mr. Walker well describes the unpleasing effects of such an 
escapade; the conversation during the rest of the evening, •' labouring un- 
der that compulsory etfort which was unavoidable, while the thoughts ot 
all were full of the only subject on which it was improper to speak." Burns 
showed his good sense by making no effort to repair this blunder ; but years 
afterwards, he confessed that he could never recall it without exquisite | 
pain. Mr. Walker properly says, it did honour to Dr. Blair that his kind- 
ness remained totally unaltered by this occurrence ; but the Professor 
would have found nothing to admire in that circumstance, had he not been 
well aware of the rarity of such good-nature among the genus irritabile ot 
authors, orators, and wits. 

A specimen (which some will think worse, some better) is thus recorded 
by Cromek : — " At a private breakfast, in a literary circle of Edinburgh, 
the conversation turned on the poetical merit and pathos of Grays Elegy 
a poem of which he was enthusiastically fond. A clergyman present, re- 
markable for his love of paradox and for his eccentric notions upon every 
subject, distinguished himself by an injudicious and ill-timed attack on this 
exquisite poem, which Burns, with generous warmth for the reputation ot 
Gray, manfully defended. As the gentleman's remarks were rather gene- 
ral than specific, Burns urged him to bring forward the passages which he 
thought exceptionable. He made several attempts to quote the poem, but 
always in a blundering, inaccurate manner. Burns bore all this for a good 
while with his usual good-natured forbearance, till at length, goaded by 
the fastidious criticisms and wretched quibblings of his opponent, he roused 
himself, and with an eye flashing contempt and indignation, and with great 
vehemence of gesticulation, he thus addressed the cold critic : — ' Sir, 1 now 
perceive a man may be an excellent judge of poetry by square and rule, 

and after all be a d d blockhead.' " — Another of the instances may be 

mentioned, which shew the poet's bluntness of manner, and how true the 
remark afterwards made by Mr. Ramsay is, that in the game of society he 
did not know when to play on or off. While the second edition of his Poems 
was passing through the press. Burns was favoured with many critical sug- 
gestions and amendments ; to one of which only he attended. Blair, read- 
ing over with him, or hearing him recite (which he delighted at all times 
in doing) his Holy Faii\ stopped him at the stanza — 

Now a' the congre<jation o'er 

Is silent expectation. 
For Russel speels the holy door 

VVi' tidings o' Salvation. — 



Nay, said the Doctor, read damnation. Burns improved the wit of this 
verse, undoubtedly, by adopting the emendation ; but he gave another | 
j strange specimen of want of tact, when he insisted that Dr. Blair, one of 
the most scrupulous observers of clerical propriety, should permit him to 
acknowledge the obligation in a note. 

But to pass from these trifles, it needs no effort of imagination to con 
ceive what the sensations of an isolated set of scholars (almost all either 
clergymen or professors) must ha^e been in the presence of this big-boned, 
blaok-browed, brawny stranger, with his great Hashing eyes, who, having 
forced his wa}"- among then/ from the plough-tail at a single stride, man' 



i I 



I I 



^i LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

Tested, in the whole strain of his bearing and conversation, a most thorough 
conviction, that, in the society of the most eminent men of his nation, he 
was exactly where he was entitled to be ; hardly deigned to flatter them 
by exhibiting even an occasional symptom of being flattered by their no- 
tice ; by turns calmly measured himself against the most cultivated under- 
standings of his time in discussion ; overpowered the bon mots of the most 
celebrated convivialists by broad floods of merriment, impregnated with all 
the burning life of genius ; astounded bosoms habitually enveloped in the 
thrice-piled folds of social reserve, by compelling them to tremble— nay to 
tremble visibly — beneath the fearless touch of natural pathos ; and all this 
without indicating the smallest willingness to be ranked among those pro 
fessional ministers of excitement, who are content to be paid *n money and 
smiles for doing what the spectators and auditors would be ashamed of do- 
ing in their own persons, even if they had the power of doing it ; and. — 
last and probably worst of all, — who was known to be in the habit of en- 
livening societies which they would have scorned to approach, still more 
frequently than their own, with eloquence no less magnificent ; with wit in 
all likelihood still more daring ; often enough, as the superiors whom he 
fronted without alarm might have guessed from the beginning, and had, 
ere long, no occasion to guess, with wit pointed at themselves. 

The lawyers of Edinburgh, in whose wider circles Burns figured at his 
outset, with at least as much success as among the professional literati, 
were a very different race of men from these ; they would neither, 1 take 
it, have pardoned rudeness, nor been alarmed by wit. But being, in those 
days, with scarcely an exception, members of the landed aristocracy of the 
country, and forming by far the most influential body (as indeed they still 
do) in the society of Scotland, they were, perhaps, as proud a set of men 
as ever enjoyed the tranquil pleasures of unquestioned superiority. What 
their haughtiness, as a body, was, may be guessed, when we know that in- 
ferior birth was reckoned a fair and legitimate ground for excluding any 
man from the bar. In one remarkable insta-nce, about this very time, a 
man of very extraordinarj^ talents and accomplishments was chiefly opposed 
in a long and painful struggle for admission, and, in reality, for no reasons 
but those I have been alluding to, by gentlemen who in the sequel stood 
at the very head of the Whig party in Edinburgh ; * and the same aristo- 
cratical prejudice has, within the memory of the present generation, kept 
more persons of eminent qualifications in the background, for a season, 
than any English reader would easily believe. To this body belonged 
nineteen out of twenty of those " patricians," whose stateliness Burns so 
long remembered and so bitterly resented. It might, perhaps, have been 
well for him had stateliness been the worst fault of their manners. Wine- 
bibbing appears to be in most regions a favourite indulgence with those 
whose brams and lungs are subjected to the severe exercises of legal study 
and forensic practice. To this day, more traces of these old habits linger 
about the inns of court than in any other section of London. In Dublin 
and Edinburgh, the barristers are even now eminently convival bodies of 
men ; but among the Scotch lawyers of the time of Burns, the principle of 
jollity was indeed in its " high and palmy state." He partook largely in 
those tavern scenes of audacious hilarity, which then soothed, as a matter 

* .'Mr. John Wild, son of a Tobacconist in the High Street, Edinburgh. He came to be 
Professor of Civil law in that University ; but, in tho end, was also an instance of unhappv 
genius. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ivh 

of course, the arid labours of the northern noblesse de la robe. The tavern'« 
life is now-a-days nearly extinct every where ; but it was then in full 
I vigour in Edinburgh, and there can be no doubt that Burns rapidly fami- 
liarized himself with it during his residence. He had, after all, tasted but 
rarely of such excesses while in Ayrshire. So little are we to consider 
his Scotch Drink, and other jovial strains of the early period, as conveying 
any thing like a fair notion of his actual course of life, that " Auld Nanse 
Tinnock," or " Poosie Nancie," the Mauchline landlady, is known to have 
I expressed, amusingly enough, her surprise at the style in which she found 
! her name celebrated in the Kilmarnock edition, saying, " that Robert 
Burns might be a very clever lad, but he certainly was regardless, as, to the 
best of her belief, he had never taken three half-mutchkins in her house in 
all his life." And in addition to Gilbert's testimony to the same purpose, 
we have on record that of Mr. Archibald Bruce, a gentleman of great 
worth and discernment, that he had observed Burns closely during that 
period of his life, and seen him " steadily resist such sohcitations and al- 
lurements to excessive convivial enjoyment, as hardly any other person could 
have withstood." — The unfortunate Heron knew Burns weL , and himself 
mingled largely in some of the scenes to which he adverts in the following 
strong language : -" The enticements of pleasure too often unman our vir- 
tuous resolution, even while we wear the air of rejecting them with a stern 
brow. We resist, and resist, and resist ; but, at last, suddenly turn, and 
passionately embrace the enchantress. The bucks of Edinburgh accom- 
plished, in regard to Burns, that in which the boors of Ayrshire had failed. 
After residing some months in Edinburgh, he began to estrange himself, 
not altogether, but in some measure, from graver friends. Too many of 
his hours were now spent at the tables of persons who delighted to urge 
conviviality to drunkenness — in the tavern — and in the brothel." It would 
be idle now to attempt passing over these things in silence ; but it could 
serve no good purpose to dwell on them. During this winter. Burns con- 
tinued to lodge with John Richmond, indeed, to share his bed ; and we 
have the authority of this, one of the earliest and kindest friends of the 
poet, for the statement, that while he did so, " he kept good hours." He 
removed afterwards to the house of Mr. William Nicoll, one of the teachers 
of the High School of Edinburgh. Nicoll was a man of quick parts and 
considerable learning — who had risen from a rank as humble as Burns's : 
from the beginning an enthusiastic admirer, and, ere long, a constant associ- 
ate of the poet, and a most dangerous associate ; for, with a warm heart, 
the man united an irascible temper, a contempt of the religious institutions 
of his country, and an occasional propensity for the bottle. Of Nicoll's 
letters to Burns, and about him, I have seen many that have never been, 
and probably that never will be, printed — cumbrous and pedantic effusions, 
exhibiting nothing that one can imagine to have been pleasing to the poet, 
except a rapturous admiration of his genius. This man, nevertheless, was, 
I suspect, very far from being an unfavourable specimen of the society to 
which Heron thus alludes: — " He (the poet) suffered himself to be sur- 
rounded by a race of miserable beings, who were proud to tell that they 
had been in company with Burns, and had seen Burns as loose and as 
foolish as themselves. He was not yet irrecoverably lost to temperance 
and moderation ; but he was already almost too much captivated with their 
wanton revels, to be ever more won back to a faithful attachment to their 
more sober charms " Heron adds — " He now also began to contract some» 

D2 



Mil LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. j I 

thing of new arrogance in conversation. Accustomed to be, among his j i 
favourite associates, what is vulgarly, but expressively called, the cock ol 
the company, he could scarcely refrain from indulging in similar freedom 
and dictatorial decision of talk, even in the presence of persons who could 
less patiently endure his presumption ;" * an account ex facie probable, and 
which sufficiently tallies with some hints in Mr. Dugald Stewart's descrip- 
tion of the poet's manners, as he first observed him at Catrine, and with 
one or two anecdotes already cited from Walker and Cromek. 

Of these failings, and indeed of all Burns's failings, it may be safely as- 
serted, that there was more in his history to account and apologize for 
them, than can be alleged in regard to almost any other great man's imper- 
fections. We have seen, how, even in his earliest days, the strong thirst 
of distinction glowed within him — how in his first and rud<=>«!t rhymes he 
sung, 

" to be great is charming ;" . 

and we have also seen, that the display of talent in conversation was the 
first means of distinction that occurred to him. It was by that talent that 
he first attracted notice among his fellow peasants, and after he mingled 
with the first Scotsmen of his time, this talent was still that which appear- 
ed the most astonishing of all he possessed. What wonder that he should 
delight in exerting it where he could exert it the most freely — where there 
was no check upon a tongue that had been accustomed to revel in the li- 
cense of village-mastery ? where every sally, however bold, was sure to be 
received with triumphant applause — where there were no claims to rival 
his — no proud brows to convey rebuke, above all, perhaps, no grave eyes 
to convey regret P 

But these, assuredly, w^ere not the only feelings that influenced Burns : 
In his own letters, written during his stay in Edinburgh, we have the best 
evidence to the contrary. He shrewdly suspected, from the very begin- 
ning, that the personal notice of the great and the illustrious was not to be 
as lasting as it was eager : he foresaw, that sooner or later he was destined 
to revert to societies less elevated above the pretensions of his birth ; and, 
though his jealous pride might induce him to record his suspicions in lan- 
guage rather too strong than too weak, it is quite impossible to read what 
he wrote without believing that a sincere distrust lay rankling at the roots 
of his heart, all the while that he appeared to be surrounded with an at- 
mosphere of joy and hope. On the 15th of January 1787, we find him 
thus addressing his kind patroness, Mrs. Dunlop : — " You are afraid I shall 
grow intoxicated with my prosperity as a poet. Alas ! Madam, I know 
myself and the world too well. 1 do not mean any airs of affected modesty ; 
I am willing to believe that my abilities deserved some notice ; but in a 
most enlightened, informed age and nation, when poetry is and has been 
the study of men of the first natural genius, aided with all the powers of 
polite learning, polite books, and polite company — to be dragged forth to 
the full glare of learned and polite observation, with all my imperfections 
of awkward rusticity, and crude unpolished ideas, on my head, — I assure 
you. Madam, I do not dissemble, when I tell you I tremble for the conse- 
quences. The novelty of a poet in my obscure situation, without any of 
those advantages which are reckoned necessarj/ for that character, at least 

* Heron, p. 28. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ^ lix 

5\ tins time of day, has raised a partial tide of public notice, which has 
borne me to a height where I am absolutely, feelingly certain, my abilities 
are inadeij;uate to support me ; and too surely do I see that time, when the 
same tide will leave me, and recede perhaps as far below the mark of 
truth. ... 1 mention this once for all, to disburden my mind, and I 
do not wish to hear or say any more about it. But — ' When proud for- 
tune's ebbing tide recedes,' you will bear me witness, that when my bubble 
of fame was at the highest, I stood unintoxicated with the inebriating cup 
In my hand, looking forward with rueful resolve." — And about the same 
time, to Dr. Moore : — " The hope to be admired for ages is, in by far the 
greater part of those even who are authors of repute, an unsubstantial 
dream. For my part, my first ambition was, and still my strongest wish 
is, to please my compeers, the rustic inmates of the hamlet, while ever- 
changing language and manners shall allow me to be relished and under- 
stood. 1 am very willing to admit that I have some poetical abilities ; and 
as few, if any writers, either moral or poetical, are intimately acquainted 
with the classes of mankind among whom I have chiefly mingled, I may 
have seen men and manners in a different phasis from what is common, 
which may assist originality of thought I scorn the affecta- 
tion of seeming modesty to cover self-conceit. That I have some merit, I 
do not deny ; but I see, with frequent wringings of heart, that the novelty 
of my character, and the honest national prejudice of my countrymen, have 
borne me to a height altogether untenable to my abilities." — And lastly, 
April the 23d, 1787, we have the following passage in a letter also to Dr. 
Moore : — " I leave Edinburgh in the course often days or a fortnight. I 
shall return to my rural shades, in all likelihood never more to quit them. 
I have formed many intimacies and friendships here, but I am afraid they are 
all of too tender a construction to bear carriage a hundred and fifty miles." 
One word more on the subject which introduced these quotations : — Mr. 
Dugald Stewart, no doubt, hints at what was a common enough complaint 
among the elegant literati of Edinburgh, when he alludes, in his letter to 
Currie, to the " not very select society" in which Burns indulged himself. 
But two points still remain somewhat doubtful ; namely, whether, show 
and marvel of the season as he was, the " Ayrshire ploughman" really had 
it in his power to live always in society which Mr. Stewart would have con- 
sidered as " very select ;" and secondly, whether, in so doing, he could 
have failed to chill the affection of those humble Ayrshire friends, who, hav- 
ing shared with him all that they possessed on his rirst arrival in the metro- 
polis, faithfully and fondly adhered to him, after the springtide of fashion- 
able favour did, as he foresaw it would do, " recede ;" and, moreover, per- 
haps to provoke, among the higher circles themselves, criticisms more dis- 
tasteful to his proud stomach, than any probable consequences of the course 
of conduct which he actually pursued. The second edition of Burns's 
poems was published early in March, by Creech ; there were no less than 
1300 subscribers, many of whom paid more than the shop-price of the vo- 
lume. Although, therefore, the final settlement with the bookseller did not 
take place till nearly a year after, Burns now found himself in possession 
of a considerable sum of ready money ; and the first impulse of his mind 
was to visit some of the classic scenes of Scottish history and romance. He 
had as yet seen but a small part of his own country, and this by no means 
among the most interesting of her districts, until, indeed, his own poetry 
made it equal, on that score, to any other " The appellation of a Scottisk 



Ix LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

bard is by far ray highest pride ; to continue to deserve it, is my most ex» 
alted ambition. Scottish scenes, and Scottish story, are the themes I 
could vasli to sing. I have no dearer aim than to have it in my power, 
unplagued with the routine of business, for which, Heaven knows, I am 
unfit enough, to make leisurely pilgrimages through Caledonia ; to sit on 
the fields of her battles, to wander on the romantic banks of her rivers, 
and tc muse by the stately towers or venerable ruins, once the honoured 
abodes .^f her heroes. But these are Utopian views." * 

The magnificent scenery of the capital itself had filled him with extraor- 
dinary delight. In* the spring mornings, he walked very often to the top ol 
Arthur's Seat, and, lying prostrate on the turf, surveyed the rising of the 
sun out of the sea, in silent admiration ; his chosen companion on such oc- 
casions being that ardent lover of nature, and learned artist, Mr. Alexander 
Nasmyth. It was to this gentleman, equally devoted to the fine arts, as to 
liberal opinions, that Burns sat for the portrait engraved to Creech's edi- 
tion, and which is here repeated. Indeed, it has been so often repeated, and 
has become so familiar, that to omit it now would be felt as a blank equal 
almost to the leaving out of one of the principal poems. The poet's dress 
has also been chronicled, remarkably as he then appeared in the first hey- 
day of his reputation, — blue coat and buff vest, with blue stripes, (the 
Whig-livery), very tight buckskin breeches, and tight jockej/ boots 

The Braid hills, to the south of Edinburgh, were also among his favourite 
morning walks ; and it was in some of these that Mr. Dugald Stewart tells 
us, " he charmed him still more by his private conversation than he had 
ever done in company." " He was," adds the professor, " passionately fond 
of the beauties of nature, and I recollect once he told me, when I was ad- 
miring a distant prospect in one of our morning walks, that the sight of so 
many smoking cottages gave a pleasure to his mind which none could un- 
derstand who had not witnessed, like himself, the happiness and the worth 
which they contained." Burns was far too busy with society and observa- 
tion to find time for poetical composition, during his first residence in 
Edinburgh. Creech's edition included some pieces of great merit, which 
had not been previously printed ; but, with the exception of the Address to 
Edinburgh, all of them appear to have been written before he left Ayrshire. 
Several of them, indeed, were very early productions : The most important 
additions were. Death and Doctor Horitbook, The Brigs of Ayr, The Ordu 
nation, and the Address to the unco Guid. In this edition also, When Guild- 
ford guid our pilot stood, made its first appearance. 

The evening before he quitted Edinburgh, the poet addressed a let- 
ter to Dr. Blair, in which, taking a most respectful farewell of him, and 
expressing, in lively terms, his sense of gratitude for the kindness he had 
shown him, he thus recurs to his own views of his own past and future con- 
dition : " I have often felt the embarrassment of my singular situation 
However the metor-like novelty of my appearance in the world might at- 
tract notice, 1 knev^ very well, that my utmost merit was far unequal tc 
the task of preserving that character when once the novelty was over. I 
have made up my mind, that abuse, or almost even neglect, will not sur- 
prise me in my quarters." 

It ought not to be omitted, that our poet bestowed some of the first fruits 
of Creech's edition in the erection of a decent tombstone over the hitherto 

• Letter to ]\Irs. Dunlop, Edinbur^-h, 22d JMarch 1787. 



! 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



Ixi 



I 



neglected remains of his unfortunate predecessor, Robert Ferguson, in the 
Canongatt; churchyard. It seems also due to him here to insert his Address 
to Edinburgh, — so graphic and comprehensive, — as the proper record of 
the feelings engendered in his susceptible and grateful mind by the kind- 
ness shown to him, in his long visit, and under which feelings he was now 
about to quit it for a time. 



ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 



Edika ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and towers. 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sovereign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the lingermg hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 

Here wealth still swells the golden tide. 

As busy trade his labours plies ; 
There architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendour rise ; 
Here justice, from her native skies, 

High wields her balance and her rod ; 
There learning, with his eagle eyes, 

Seeks science in her coy abode. 

Thy sons, Ediwa, social, kind, 

W\i\\ open arms tlie stranger hail ; 
Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, 

Above the narrow, rural vale ; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 

Or modest merit's silent claim ; 
And never may their sources fail ! 

And never envy blot their name. 

rhy daughters bright thy walks adorn ! 

Gay as the gilded summer's sky. 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn. 

Dear as the raptured thrill of joy I 
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye,^ 

Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine : 
I see the sire of love on high^ 

And own his work indeed divine ! 



There, watching high the least alarms, 

Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar ; 
Like some bold vet'ran grey in arms, 

And mark'd with many a seamy scar : 
The pon'drous wall and massy bar. 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock : 
Have oft withstood assailing war. 

And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. 

With awe-struck thought and pitying tear* 

I view that noble, stately dome. 
Where Scotia's kings of other years. 

Famed heroes, had their royal home. 
Alas ! how changed ihe. times to come ! 

Their royal name low in the dust ; 
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam ! 

Tbo' rigid law cries out, 'twas just ! 

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps. 

Whose ancestors in days of yore. 
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 

Old Scotia\'s bloody lion bore : 
E'en / who sing in rustic lore. 

Haply 7ni/ sires have left their shed, 
And laced grim danger's loudest roar, 

Bold following where your fathers led ! 

Epina ! Scotia''e darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs. 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sov 'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers, 

As on the banks of Jyr I stray'd. 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring houn, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 



CHAPTER VI 



j Contents. — Makes three several pilgrimages in Caledonia— .Lands from the first if them^ 
after an absence of six months, amongst his friends in the " Auld Clay JBiggin'" — Finds 
I honour in his own country — Falls in with many kind friends during those pilgrimages, and 

I is familiar with the great, hut ncer secures one effective patron — Anecdotes and Sketches — 

j Lingers in Edinburgh amidst the fieshpats, winter 1787S— -Upset in a hackney coach^ 

j which produces a bruised limb, and mournful musings for six weeks — Is enrolled in the Ex- 

I cise — Another crisis, in which the Poet finds it necessary to implore even his friend Mrs. 

Dunlop not to desert him — Growls over his publisher, but after settling tvith him leaves 
! EJ^'tburgh with £500— Steps towards a more regular life. 



'b 



" Ramsay and famous Ferguson, 
Gied Forth and Tay a lift aboon ; 
Yarrow and Tweed to monie a tunc 

Thro' Scotland rings, 
While Irvine, Lugar, Ayr, and Doon, 

ISaebody sings." 

On the 6ti. of May, Burns left Edinburgh, in company with Mr. Robert 
Ainshe, Writer to the Signet, the son of a proprietor in Berwickshire — 
Among other changes " which fleeting time procureth," this amiable gen- 
tleman, whose youthful gaiety made him a chosen associate of Burns, is now 
chiefly known as the author of some Manuals of Devotion. — They had 
formed the design of perambulating the picturesque scenery of the south- 
ern border, and in particular of visiting the localities celebrated by the 
old minstrels, of whose works Burns was a passionate admirer. 

This was long before the time when those fields of Scottish romance were 
to be made accessible to the curiosity of citizens by stage-coaches ; and 
Burns and his friend performed their tour on horseback ; the former bein< 
mounted on a favourite mare, whom he had named Jenny Geddes, in ho- 
nour of the good woman who threw her stool at the Dean of Edinburgh's 
head on the •^:^d of July l()37, when the attempt was made to introduce a 
Scottish Liturgy into the service of St. Giles's. The merits of the trusty 
animal have been set forth by the poet in very expressive and humorous 
terms, in a letter to his friend Nicoll while on tlie road, and which will be 
found entire in the Correspondence. He writes : — " My auld ga'd gleyde | 
o' a meere has huchyalled up hill and down brae, as touch and birnie as a | 
vera devil, wi' me. It's true she's as pulr's a sangmaker, and as hard's a I 
kirk, and llpper-laipers when she takes the gate, like a lady's gentlewoman I 
in a minuwae, or a hen on a het girdle ; but she's a j^auld poutherin girran I 
for a' that. When ance her ringbanes and pavies, her cruiks and cramps, 
are fairly soupled, she beets to, beets to, and aye the hindmost hour the i 
lightest," &c. &c. 

Burns passed from Edinburgh to Berrywell, the residence of Mr. Ainslie's 
family, and visited successively Dunse, Coldstream, Kelso, Fleurs, and the 
ruins of Roxburgh Castle, nea*- which a holly bush still marks the spot or 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixiii 

which James II. of Scotland was killed by the- bursting of a ( annon. Jedburgh 
— v/here he admired the " charming romantic situation of the town, with gar- 
dens and orchards intermingled among the houses of a once magnificent ca- 
thedral (abbey);" and was struck, (as in the other towns of the same district), 
with the appearance of " old rude grandure," and the idleness of decay ; 
Melroscj " that far-famed glorious ruin," Selkirk, Ettrick, and the braes of 
Yarrow. Having spent three weeks in this district, of which it has been 
justly said, " that every field has its battle, and every rivulet its song," 
Burns passed the Border, and visited Alnwick, VVarkworth, Morpeth, New- 
castle, Hexham, VVardrue, and Carlisle. He then turned northwards, and 
rode by Annan and Dumfries to Dalswinton, where he examined Mr, 
Miller s property, and was so much pleased with the soil, and the terms 
on which the landlord was willing to grant him a lease, that he resolved to 
return again in the course of the summer. 

The poet visited, in the course of his tour, Sir James Hall of Dunglas. 
author of the well known Essay on. Gothic Architecture, Szc; Sir Alexander 
and Lady Harriet Don, (sister to his patron, Lord Glencairn), at Newton- 
Don ; Mr. Brydone, the author of Travels in Sicily ; the amiable and 
learned Dr. Somerville of Jedburgh, the historian of Queen Anne, Szc. ; and, 
as usual, recorded in his journal his impressions as to their manners and 
characters. His receptiorj was everywhere most flattering. The sketch 
of his tour is a very brief one. It runs thus : — 

" Saturday, May 6. Left Edinburgh — Lammer-muir hills, miserably 
dreary in general, but at times very picturesque. 

" Lanson-edge, a glorious view of the Merse. Reach Berrywell. . 
The family-meeting with my compagnon de voyage, very charming ; parti- 
cularly the sister. 

" Sunday. Went to church at Dunse. Heard Dr. Bowmaker. 

" Monday. Coldstream — glorious river Tweed — clear and majestic — 
fine bridge — dine at Coldstream with Mr. Ainslie and Mr. Foreman. Beat 
Mr. Foreman in a dispute about Voltaire. Drink tea at Lennel-House with 
Mr. and Mrs. Brydone. . . . Reception extremely flattering. Sleep at 
Coldstream. 

" Tuesday. Breakfast at Kelso — charming situation of the town — fine 
Dridge over the Tweed. Enchanting views and prospects on both sides of 
the river, especially on the Scotch side. . . . Visit Roxburgh Palace 
— fine situation of it. Ruins of Roxburgh Castle — a holly bush growing 
where James the Second was accidentally killed by the bursting of a can- 
non. A small old religious ruin and a fine old garden planted by the reli- 
gious, rooted out and destroyed by a Hottentot, a niaitre d' hotel of the 
Duke's ! — Climate and soil of Berwickshire, and even Roxburghshire, su- 
perior to Ayrshire — bad roads — turnip and sheep husbandry, their great 
improvements. . . . Low markets, consequently low lands — magnifi- 
cence of farmers and farm-houses. Come up the Teviot, and up the ^ei\ 
to Jedburgh, to lie, and so wish myself good night. 

^ " Wednesday. Breakfast with Mr. Fair. . . . Charming rom.antic 
situation of Jedburgh, with gardens and orchards, intermingled among the 
houses and the ruins of a once magnificent cathedral. All the towns here 
have the appearance of old rude grandeur, but extremely idle. — Jed, a fine 
romantic little river. Dined with Capt. Rutherford, . . . return tc 
Jedburgh. Walked up the Jed with some ladies to be shown Love-lane, 
and Blackburn, two fair\ scenes. Introduced to Mr. Potts, writer, and to 



.xi/ LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

Mr. Sonierville, the clergyman of the parish, a man, and a gentleman, but 
Badly addicted to punning. 



" Jedburgh, Saturday. Was presented by the Magistrates with the free- 1 j 
dom of the town. Took farewell of Jedburgh, with some melancholy sen- | 
sations. ! 

" Monday, May 14, Kelso. Dine with the farmer's club - all gentlemen | 
talking of high matters — each of them keeps a hunter from .t!;^0 to ^ 50 ( | 
value, and attends the fox-hunting club in the country. Go out with Mr. 
Ker, one of the club, and a friend of Mr. Ainslie's, to sleep. In his mind | 
and manners, Mr. Ker is astonishingly like my dear old friend Robert Muir 
— Every thing in his house elegant. He offers to accompany me in my 
English tour. 

" Tuesday. Dine with Sir Alexander Don ; a very wet day. . . 
Sleep at Mr. Ker's again, and set out next day for Melrose — visit Dryburgh 
a fine old ruined abbey, by the way. Cross the Leader, and come up the 
Tweed to Melrose. Dine there, and visit that far-famed glorious ruin — 
Come to Selkirk up the banks of Ettrick. The whole country hereabouts, 
both on Tweed and Ettrick, remarkably stony." 

He wrote no verses, as far as is known, during this tour, except a humor- 
ous Epistle to his bookseller, Creech, dated Selkirk, LSth May. In this 
he makes complimentary allusions to some of the men of letters who were 
used to meet at breakfast in Creech's apartments in those days — whence 
the name of CreecJis Levee ; and touches, too, briefly on some of the sce- 
nery he had visited. 

" Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, 
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 
And Ettrick banks now roaring red, 

While tempests blaw." 

Burns returned to Mauchline on the 8th of July. It is pleasing to imagine 
ihe delight with which he must have been received by the family after the 
absence of six months, in which his fortunes and prospects had undergone 
so wonderful a change. He left them comparatively unknown, his tender- 
est feelings torn and wounded by the behaviour of the Armours, and so 
miserably poor, that he had been for some weeks obliged to skulk from the 
Sheriff's officers, to avoid the payment of a paltry debt. He returned, 
his poetical fame established, the whole country ringing with his praises, 
from a capital in which he was known to have formed the wonder and de- 
light of the polite and the learned ; if not rich, yet with more money al- 
ready than any of his kindred had ever hoped to see him possess, and with 
prospects of future patronage and permanent elevation in the scale of so- 
ciety, which might have dazzled steadier eyes than those of maternal and 
fraternal affection. The prophet had at last honour in his own country : 
but the haughty spirit that had preserved its balance in Edinburgh, was 
not likely to lose it at Mauchline ; and we have him writing from the auld \ 
cloy biggin on the 18th of June, in terms as strongly expressive as any 
that ever came from his pen, of that jealous pride which formed the ground- 
work of his character; that dark suspiciousness of fortune, which the sub- 
sequent course of his history too well justified ; that nervous intolerance oi 
condescension, and consummate scorn of meanness, which attended him 
through life, and made the study of his species, for which nature had given 
him such extraordinary qualifications, the source of more pain than was 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. ixv 

ever counterbalanced by the exquisite capacity for enJDyment with which 
he was also endowed. There are few of his letters in which more of the 
dark traits of his spirit come to light than in the following extract : — 
" I never, my friend, thought mankind capable of any thing very gene- 
rous ; but the stateliness of the patricians of Edinburgh, and the servility 
of my plebeian brethren, (who, perhaps, formerly eyed me askance), since I 
returned home, have nearly put me out of conceit altogether with my spe- 
cies. I have bought a pocket-Milton, which I carry perpetually about me, 
in order to study the sentiments, the dauntless magnanimity, the intrepid 
unyielding independence, the desperate daring, and noble defiance of hard- 
ship, in that great personage — Satan. . . . The many ties of acquaintance 
and friendship 1 have, or think I have, in life — I have felt along the lines, 
and, d — n them, they are almost all of them of such frail texture, that I 
am sure they would not stand the breath of the least adverse breeze of 
fortune." 

Among those who now appeared sufficiently ready to court his society, 
were the family of Jean Armour. Burns's regard for this affectionate young 
woman had outlived his resentment of her father's disavowal of him in the 
preceding summer; and from the time of this reconciliation, it is probable 
he looked forward to a permanent union with the mother of his children. 

Burns at least fancied himself to be busy with serious plans for his fu- 
ture establishment ; and was very naturally disposed to avail himself, as far 
as he could, of the opportunities of travel and observation, which an inter- 
val of leisure might present. Moreover, in spite of his gloomy language, a 
specimen of which has just been quoted, we are not to doubt that he de- 
rived much pleasure from witnessing the extensive popularity of his writ- 
ings, and from the flattering homage he was sure to receive in his own per- 
son in the various districts of his native country ; nor can any one wonder 
that, after the state of high excitement in which he had spent the winter 
and spring, he, fond as he was of his family, and eager to make them par- 
takers in all his good fortune, should have, just at this time, found himself 
incapable of sitting down contentedly for any considerable period together 
in so humble and quiet a circle as that of Mossglel. His appetite for wan 
dering appears to have been only sharpened by his Border excursion. After 
remaining a few days at home, he returned to Edinburgh, and thence pro- 
ceeded on another short tour, by way of Stirling, to Inverary, and so back 
again, by Dumbarton and Glasgow, to Mauchllne. Of this second excur- 
sion, no journal has been discovered ; nor do the extracts from his corres- 
pondence, printed by Dr. Currie, appear to be worthy of much notice. In 
one, he briefly describes the West Highlands as a country " where savage 
streams tumble over savage mountains, thinly overspread with savage flocks, 
which starvlngly support as savage Inhabitants :" and In anotner, he gives 
an account of Jenny Geddes running a race after dinner with a Highlander's 
pony — of his dancing and drinking till sunrise at a gentleman's house on 

Loch Lomond ; and of other similar matters " 1 have as yet," says he, 

*' fixed on nothing with respect to the serious business of life. I am, just 
as usual, a rhyming, mason-making, raking, aimless, idle fellow. However, 
I shall somewhere have a farm soon." 

In the course of this tour, Burns visited the mother and sisters of his 
friend, Gavin Hamilton, then residing at Harvleston, In Clackmannanshire, 
in the immediate neighbourhood of the magnificent scenery of Castle Camp- 
bell, and the vale of Devon. Castle Campbell, called otherwise the Castle 



I I 



Ixvi LIFE OB ROBERT BURNS 

of Glonm, is grandly situated in a gorge of the Ochills, commanding an 
extensive view of the plain of Stirling. This ancient possession of the 
Argyll family was, in some sort, a town-residence of those chieftains in the 
days when the court was usuciliy held at Stirling, Linlithgow, or Falkland. 
The castle was burnt by Montrose, and has never been repaired. The 
Cauldron IJtm and ttumhlmg Brigg of the Devon lie near Castle Camp- 
bell, on the verge of the plain. He was especially delighted with one oi 
the young ladies ; and, according to his usual custom, celebrated her in 
a song, in which, in opposition to his general custom, there is nothing but 
the respectfulness of admiration. 

How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon, 

With green spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair ; 

But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon 
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. 

I\Iild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, 

In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ! 
And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, 

That steals on the evening each leaf to renew, 

O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, 

"With chill hoary win^ as ye usher the dawn ! 
And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes 

The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! 

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies. 

And England triumphant display her proud rose ; 
A fairer than either adorns the green valleys, 

\Vhere Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. 

At Harviestonbank, also, the poet first became acquainted with Miss 
I i Chalmers, afterwards Mrs. Hay, to whom one of the most interesting se- 
! rics of his letters is addressed. Indeed, with the exception of his letters to 
I Mrs. Dunlop, there is, perhaps, no part of his correspondence which may 
I be quoted so uniformly to his honour. It was on this expedition that, 
I having been visited with a high flow of Jacobite indignation while viewing 
; 1 the neglected palace at Stirling, he was imprudent enough to write some 
i I verses bitterly vituperative of the reigning family on the window of his 
I inn. These verses were copied and talked of; and although the next time 
i I Burns passed through Stirling, he himself broke the pane of glass contain- 
ing them, they were remembered years afterwards to his disadvantage, and 
even danger. — As these verses have never appeared in any edition of his 
works hithei to published in Britain, we present them to our readers as a 
literary curiosity. 

Here once in triumph Stuarts reign'd, 
And laws for Scotia well ordain'd ; 
But now unroof 'd their palace stands ; 
Tlieir sceptre's sway'd by other hands. 

The injured Stuart line is gone, 

A race outlandish fills the throne ; — 

An idiot race, to honour lost, 

Who know them best, despise them most. 

The young ladies of Harvieston were, according tc Dr. Currie, surprised 
with the calm manner in which Burns contemplated their fine scenery on 
Devon water; and the Doctor enters into a little dissertation on the subject, 
showing that a man of Burns's lively imagination might probably have form- 
ed anticipations which the realities of the prospect might rather disappoint 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixvii ; | 

! ! 

This is possible enough ; but I suppose few will take it for gr£.r.ted that j I 

Burns surveyed any scenes either of beauty or of grandeur without emo- ; i 

tion, merely because he did not choose to be ecstatic for the benefit ot a J j 

company of young ladies. He was indeed very impatient of interruption i | 

on such occasions : riding one dark night near ('arron, his companion teased | i 

him with noisy exclamations of delight and wonder, whenever an opening ! I 

in the wood permitted them to see the magnificent glare of the furnaces ,* ' ! 

" Look, Burns ! Good Heaven ! look ! look ! what a glorious sight !" — i j 
" Sir," said Burns, clapping spurs to Jenny Geddes, " I would not I&oh ! \ 
look ! at your bidding, if it were the mouth of hell !" ^ | 

Burns spent the month of July at Mossgiel ; and Mr. Dugald Stewart, I 
in a letter to Currie, gives some recollections of him as he then appeared : | 
— " Notwithstanding the various reports I heard during the preceding win- I 
ter of Burns's predilection for convivial, and not very select society, I | 

should have concluded in favour of his habits of sobriety, from all of him \ \ 

that ever fell under my own observation. He told me indeed himself, that ! ' 

the weakness of his stomach was such as to deprive him entirely of any I | 

merit in his temperance. I was, however, somewhat alarmed about the I j 

I ! effect of his now comparatively sedentary and luxurious life, when he con- | j 

! I fessed to mC; the first night he spent in my house after his winter's cam- ! i 

I paign in town, that he had been much disturbed when in bed, by a palpi- | ; 
I I tation at his heart, which, he said, was a complaint to which he had of late 
I I become subject. In the course of the same season 1 was led by curiosity 
I I to attend fot* an hour or two a Masonic Lodge in Mauchline, where Burns 
presided. He had occasion to make some short unpremeditated com- 
I pliraents to different individuals from whom he had no reason to expect a 
j visit, and every thing he said was happily conceived, and forcibly as well 
I as fluently expressed. His manner of speaking in public had evidently the 
marks of some practice in extempore elocution." 
I In August, Burns revisited Stirlingshire, in company with Dr. Adair, of 
I Harrowgate, and remained ten days at Harvieston. He was received with 

j particular kindness at Ochtertyre, on the Teith, by Mr. Ramsay (a friend | 
! j of Blacklock), whose beautiful retreat he enthusiastically admired. His 

I i host was among the last of those old Scottish Latinisfs who began with Bu- ! 

j i ehanan. Mr. Ramsay, among other eccentricities, had sprinkled the walls j 

I i of his house with Latin inscriptions, some of them highly elegant ; and | 

I I these particularly interested Burns, who asked and obtained copies and j 

i I translations of them. This amiable man (another Monkbarns) was deeply j 

I read in Scottish antiquities, and the author of some learned essays on the ' 

I elder poetry of his country. His conversation must have delighted any | 

i man of talents ; and Burns and he were mutually charmed with each other. f 

i i\amsay advised him strongly to turn his attention to the romantic drama, | 

I I and proposed the Gentle Shepherd as a model : he also urged him to write | 

i I Scottish Georgics, observing that Thomson had by no means exhausted that j 
field. He appears to have relished both hints. " But," says Mr. R. " to 

have executed either plan, steadiness and abstraction from company were I 

\vanting." — Mr. Ramsay thus writes of Burns : — " I have been in the com- \ 

pany of many men of genius, some of them poets ; but I never witnessed I 

such flashes of intellectual brightness as from him, the impulse of the mo- | 

ment, sparks of celestial fire. I never was more delighted, therefore, thaji I 

I j with his company two days tete-a-tete. In a mixed company 1 should have j 

I I made little of him ; for, to use a gamester's phrase, he did not always know | 

1 1 _. j 



! I 



Ixviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. | \ 

when to play oiF and when to play on. When I asked him whether the 
Edinburgh literati had mended his poems by their criticisms — ' Sir/ saia 
he, ' those gentlemen remind me of some spinsters in my country, who «pin 
their thread so fine that it is neither fit for weft nor woof.' " 

At Clackmannan Tower, the Poet's jacobitism procured him a hearty 
welcome from the ancient lady of the place, who gloried in considering 
herself a lineal descendant of Robert Bruce. She bestowed on Burns knight- 
hood with the touch of the hero's sword ; and delighted him by giving as 
her toast after dinner, Ilooki tmcos, away strangers ! — a shepherd's cry 
when strange sheep mingle in the flock. At Dunfermline the poet betray- 
ed deep emotion. Dr. Adair tells us, on seeing the grave of the Bruce ; but, 
passing to another mood on entering the adjoining church, he mounted the 
pulpit, and addressed his companions, who had, at his desire, ascended the 
cuttyatool, in a parody of the rebuke which he had himself undergone some 
time before at Mauchline. From Dunfermline the poet crossed the Frith ot 
Forth to Edinburgh ; and forthwith set out with his friend Nicoll on a more 
extensive tour than he had as yet undertaken, or was ever again to under- 
take. Some fragments of his journal have recently been discovered, and 
are now in my hands ; so that I may hope to add some interesting particu- 
lars to the accout of Dr. Currie. The travellers hired a post-chaise for 
their expedition — the schoolmaster being, probably, no very skilful eques- 
trian. 

" August 25th^ 1787. — This day," says Burns, " I leave Edinburgh for 
a tour, in company with my good friend, Mr. Nicoll, whose originality ot 
humour promises me much entertainment. — Linlithgow. -A fertile im- 
proved country is West Lothian. The more elegance and luxury among 
the farmers, I always observe, in equal proportion, the rudeness and stupi- 

I dity of the peasantry. This remark 1 have made all over the Lothians, 

I Merse, Roxburgh, &c. ; and for this, among other reasons, I think that a 
man of romantic taste, ' a man of feeling,' will be better pleased with the 
poverty, but intelligent minds of the peasantry of Ayrshire, (peasantry they 
are all, below the Justice of Peace), than the opulence of a club of Merse 

i farmers, when he, at the same time, considers the Vandalism of their plough- 
folks, &c. I carry this idea so far, that an uninclosed, unimproved coun- 

I try is to me actually more agreeable as a prospect, than a country culti- 
vated like a garden." 

It was hardly to be expected that Robert Burns should have estimated 
the wealth of nations on the principles of a political economist ; or that 
with him the greatest possible produce, — no matter how derived. — was to 
be the paramount principle. But, where the greatness and happiness of a 
people are concerned, perhaps the inspirations of the poet may be as safely 
tak ^ 1 for a guide as the inductions of the political econQmist : — 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 

That makes her loved at home, revered abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

" An honest man's the noblest work of Gob !'* 
And certes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road. 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp ! a cumbrous load. 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind. 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined; 
O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic oil, 

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content f 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixu 

And, O I may Heav'n their simple lives prevent 

From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved Isle. 

Of Linlithgow the poet says, " the town carries the appearance of rude, 
decayed, idle grandeur — charmingly rural retired situation — the old Royal 
Palace a tolerably fine but melancholy ruin — sweetly situated by the brink 
of a loch. Shown the room where the beautiful injured Mary Queen ot 
Scots was born. A pretty good old Gothic church — the infamous stool ot 
repentance, in the old Romish way, on a lofty situation. What a poor 
pimping business is a Presbyterian place of worship ; dirty, narrow, and 
squalid, stuck in a corner of old Popish grandeur, such as Linlithgow, and 
much more Melrose ! Ceremony and show, if judiciously thrown in, are ab- 
solutely necessary for the bulk of mankind, both in religious and civil mat- 
ters " 

At Bannockburn he writes as follows : — "■ Here no Scot can pass unin- 
terested. I fancy to myself that I see my gallant countrymen coming over 
the hill, and down upon the plunderers of their country, the murderers of 
their fathers, noble revenge and just hate glowing in every vein, striding 
more and more eagerly as they approach the oppressive, insulting, blood- 
thirsty foe. I see them meet in glorious triumphant congratulation on the 
victorious field, exulting in their heroic royal leader, and rescued liberty 
and independence." — Here we have the germ of Burns's famous ode on the 
battle of Bannockburn. 

At Taymouth, the Journal merely has — " described in rhymed This al- 
ludes to the " verses written with a pencil over the mantle-piece of the 
parlour in the inn at Kenmore ;" some of which are among his best purely 
English heroics — 

" Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, 
Lone wandering by the hermit s mossy cell ; 
The sweeping tneatre of hanging woods ; 
The incessant roar of headlong-tumbling floods .... 
Here Poesy might wake her heaven-taught lyre, 
And look through nature with creative fire .... 
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconciled, 
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild ; 
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, 
Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds ; 
Here heart-struck Grief might heavenward stretch her scan, 
And injured Worth forget and pardon man." 

Of Glenlyon we have this memorandum : — •' Druids' temple, three cir- 
cles of stones the outermost sunk, the second has thirteen stones remain^ 
mg, the innermost eight ; two large detached ones like a gate to the south- 
east — say prayers on it.'' 

His notes on Dunkeld and Blair of A thole are as follows : — " Dunneld 
— Breakfast with Dr. Stuart — Neil Gow plays; a short, stout-built, High- 
land figure, with his greyish hair shed on his honest social brow — an inte- 
resting face, marking strong sense, kind openheartedness mixed with 
unmistrusting simplicity — visit his house — Margaret Gow. — Friday — 
ride up Tummel river to Diair. Fascally, a beautiful romantic nest — wild 
grandeur of the pass of Killikrankie — visit the gallant Lord Dundee's stone. 
— Bloir — sup with the Duchess — easy and happy from the manners of 
that family — confirmed in my good opinion of my friend \\ alker. — Satur- 
dai/ —ris'it the scenes round Blair — fine, but spoilt with bad taste." 



U- 



I 

I ].1FE OF ROBERT BURNS 

I Mr. Walker, who, as we have seen, formed Burns's acquaintance in 

I Edinburgh through Blacklock, was at this period tutor in the family of 
j A-thole, and from him the following particulars of Burns's reception at the 
I 5pat of his noble patron are derived : — " On reaching Blair, he sent me no- 
! tice of his arrival (as I had been previously acquainted with him), and I 
I hastened to meet him at the inn. The Duke, to whom he brought a letter 
I of introduction, was from home ; but the Duchess, being informed of his ar 
rival, gave him an invitation to sup and sleep at Athole House. He ac- 
I cepted the invitation ; but, as the hour of supper was at some distance, 
I begged I would in the interval be his guide through the grounds. It was 
I already growing dark ; yet the softened, though faint and uncertain, view 
j of their J3eauties, which the moonlight afforded us, seemed exactly suited 
I to the state of his feelings at the time. I had often, like others, experienced 
I the pleasures which arise from the sublime or elegant landscape, but I ne- 
! ver saw those feelings so intense as in Burns. When we reached a rustic 
I hut on the river Tilt, where it is overhung by a woody precipice, from 
i which there is a noble water-fall, he threw himself on the heathy seat, 
; and gave himself up to a tender, abstracted, and voluptuous enthusiasm ot 
I imagination. It was with much difficulty I prevailed on him to quit this 
j spot, and to be introduced in proper time to supper. My curiosity was 
I great to see how he would conduct himself in company so different from 
i what he had been accustomed to. His manner was unembarrassed, plain, 
! and firm. He appeared to have complete reliance on his own native good 
I sense for directing his behaviour. He seemed at once to perceive and to 
j appreciate what was due to the company and to himself, and never to for- 
I get a proper respect for the separate species of dignity belonging to each. 
j He did not arrogate conversation, but, when led into it, he spoke with ease, 
I propriety, and manliness. He tried to exert his abilities, because he knew 
i it was ability alone gave him a title to be there. The Duke's fine young 
I family attracted much of his admiration; he drank their healths as honest 
j men and bonnie lasses, an idea which was much applauded by the company, 
and with which he has very felicitously closed his poem. Next day I took 
a ride with him through some of the most romantic parts of that neigh- 
bourhood, and was highly gratified by his conversation. As a specimen 
of his happiness of conception and strength of expression. I will mention a 
remark which he made on his fellow-traveller, who was walking at the time 
a ^Qw paces before us. He was a man of a robust but clumsy person ; and 
while Burns was expressing to roe the value he entertained for him, on 
account of his vigorous talents, although they were clouded at times by 
coarseness of manners ; " in short,'" he added, " his mind is like his body, 
he has a confounded strong in-knee*d sort of a soul." — Much attention was i 
paid to Burns both before and after the Duke's return, of which he was j 
perfectly sensible, v/ithout being vain ; and at his departure 1 recommended j 
j to him. as the most appropriate return he could make, to write some des- I 
I criptive verses on any of the scenes with which he had been so much de- j 
I lighted. After leaving Blair, he, by the Duke's advice, visited the Falls cj ! 
i Br liar, and in a few days I received a letter from Inverness, with the versea i 
: enclosed." * ! 

j v^t Blair, Burns first met with Mr. Graham of Fin tray, a gentleman to ; 
whose kindness he was afterwards indebted on more than one important | 



* Extract of a letter from Mr. Walker to JMr. Cunningham, dated Perth, 24th October 



I I 



LTFh OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixx 

occasion ; and Mr. Walker expresses great regret that he did not remain 
9 day or two more, in which case he must have been introduced to Mr. 
Dundas, the first Lord Melville, who was then Treasurer of the Navy, and 
had the chief management of the affairs of Scotland. This statesman was 
but little addicted to literature ; still, had such an introduction taken 
place, he might probably have been induced to bestow that consideration 
on the claims of the poet, which, in the absence of any personal acquain- 
tance, Burns's works should have commanded at his hands. 

From Blair, Burns passed " many miles through a wild country, among 
cliffs grey with eternal snows, and gloomy savage glens, till he crossed the 
Spey ; and went down the stream through Strathspey, (so famous in Scot- 
tish music), Badenoch, &c. to Grant Castle, where he spent half a day with 
Sir James Grant ; crossed the country to Fort George, but called by the 
way at Cawdor, the ancient seat of Macbeth, where he saw the identical 
bed in which, tradition says, King Duncan was murdered ; lastly, from Fort 
George to Inverness. From Inverness, he went along the Murray Frith to 
Fochabers, taking Culloden Muir and Brodie House in his way. — Thurs- 
day^ Came over Culloden Muir — reflections on the field of battle — break- 
fast at Kilraick — old Mrs. Rose — sterling sense, warm heart, strong pas- 
sion, honest pride — all to an uncommon degree — a true chieftain's wife, 
daughter of Clephane — Mrs. Rose junior, a little milder than the mother, 
perhaps owing to her being younger — two young ladies — Miss Rose sung 
two Gaehc songs — ^beautiful and lovely — Miss Sophy Brodie, not very 
beautiful, but most agreeable and amiable — both of them the gentlest, mild- 
est, sweetest creatures on earth, and happiness be with them ! Brodie 
House to lie — Mr. B. truly polite, but not quite the Highland cordiality. — 
Friday, Cross the Findhorn to Forres — famous stone at Forres — Mr. Bro- 
die tells me the muir where Shakspeare lays Macbeth's witch- meeting, is 
still haunted — that the country folks won't pass by night. — Elgin — vene- 
rable ruins of the abbey, a grander effect at first glance than Melrose, but 
nothing near so beautiful. — Cross Spey to Fochabers — fine palace, worthy 
of the noble, the polite, the generous proprietor — the Duke makes me hap- 
pier than ever great man did ; noble, princely, yet mild, condescending, 
and affable — gay and kind — The Duchess charming, witty, kind, and sen- 
sible — God bless them."* 

Burns, who had been much noticed by this noble family when in Edin- 
burgh, happened to present himself at Gordon Castle, just at the dinner 
hour, and being invited to take a place at the table, did so, without for the 
moment adverting to the circumstance that his travelling companion had i 
been left alone at the inn, in the adjacent village. On remembering this | j 
soon after dinner, he begged to be allowed to rejoin his friend ; and the | j 
Duke of Gordon, who now for the first time learned that he was not jour- i j 
neying alone, immediately proposed to send an invitation to Mr Nicoll to j ; 
come to the Castle. His Grace's messenger found the haught}^ school- ' | 
master striding up and down before the inn door, in a state of high wrath j j 
and indignation, at what he considered Burns's neglect, and no apologies i | 
could soften his mood. He had already ordered horses, and the poet find- 
ing that he nmst choose between the ducal circle and his irritable associ 
ate, at once left Gordon Castle, and repaired to the inn ; whence Nicoll 
and he, in silence and mutual displeasure, pursued their journey along the 

* Extract from JournaL 



I 



[xxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

coast of the INIurra}- Frith. The abridgment of Burns's visit at Gordon 
Castle, " was not only," says Mr. Walker, " a mortifying disappointment, 
but in all probability a serious misfortune, as a longer stay among persons 
of such influence, might have begot a permanent intimacy, and on theii 
parts, an active concern for his future advancement." * But this touches 
on a delicate subject, which we shall not at present pause to consider. 

Pursuing his journey along the coast, the poet visited successively 
Nairn, Forres, Aberdeen, and Stonehive ; where one of his relations, James 
Burness, writer in Montrose, met him by appointment, and conducted him 
int.) the circle of his paternal kindred, among whom he spent two or three 
days. When William Burness, his father, abandoned his native alstrict, 
never to Kevisit it, he, as he used to tell his children, took a sorrowful fare- 
well of his brother on the summit of the last hill from which the roof oi 
their lowly home could be descried ; and the old man appears to have 
ever after kept up an affectionate correspondence with his family. It fell 
to the poet's lot to communicate his father's death to the Kincardineshire 
kindred, and afte. that he seems to have maintained the same sort of cor- 
respondence. He now formed a personal acquaintance with these good 
people, and in a letter to his brother Gilbert, we find him describing them 
in terms which show the lively interest he took in all their concerns. * 

" The rest of my stages," says he, " are not worth rehearsing : warm 
as I was from Ossian's country, where I had seen his very grave, what 
cared I for fishing towns and fertile carses .^" He arrived once more in 
Auld Reekie, on the IBth of September, having travelled about six hun- 
dred miles in two-and-twenty days — greatly extended his acquaintance 
with his own country, and visited some of its most classical scenery — ob- 
served something of Highland manners, which must have been as interest 
ing as they were novel to him — and strengthened considerably among th{ 
sturdy Jacobites of the North those political opinions which he at this pe 
riod avowed. 

Of the few poems composed during this Highland tour, we have already 
mentioned two or three. While standing by the Fall of Fyers, near Loch 
Ness, he wrote v/ith his pencil the vigorous couplets — 

" Among the heathy hills and rugged woods. 
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods,'' &c. 

When at Sir William Murray's of Ochtertyre, he celebrated Miss Murray 
ofLintrose, commonly called " The Flower of Sutherland," in the Song — 

" Blythe, blythe, and merry was she, 
Blythe was she but and bien," &c. 

And the verses 0?i Scaririg some Wildfowl on Loch Turit, — 

" Why, ye tenants of the lake, 

For me your wat'ry haunts forsake," &c. 

were composed while under the same roof. These last, e^cept perhaps 
Bruar Water, are the best that he added to his collection during the wan- 
derings of the summer. But in Burns's subsequent productions, we find 
many traces o" the delight with which he had contemplated nature in these 
alpine regions 

• General Correspondence- 



LIFii OF ROBERT BURNS. ixxiii 

The poet once more visited his family at Mossgiel, and Mr. Miller at 
Dalswinton, ere the winter set in ; and on more leisurely examination of 
that gentleman's estate, we find him writing as if he had all but decidea 
to become his tenant on the farm of Elllesland. It was not, however, un- 
til he had for the third time visited Dumfriesshire, in March 1788, that a 
bargain was actually concluded. More than half of the intervening 
months were spent in Edinburgh, where Burns found, or fancied that his 
presence was necessary for the satisfactory completion of his affairs with 
the booksellers. It seems to be clear enough that one great object was the 
society of his jovial intimates in the capital. Nor was he without the 
amusement of a little rom.ance to fill up what vacant hours they left him. 
He lodged that winter in Bristo Street, on purpose to be near a beautiful 
widow — the same to whom he addressed the song, 



" Clarinda, mistress of my soul," &c. 



and a series of prose epistles, which have been separately published, and 
which present more instances of bad taste, bombastic language, and fulsome 
sentiment, than could be produced from all his writings besides. 

At this time the publication called Johnmns Museum of Scottish Song 
was going on in Edinburgh ; and the editor appears to have early prevailed on 
Burns to give him his assistance in the arrangement of his materials. Though 
Green grow the rashes is the only song, entirely his, which appears in the 
first volume, published in 1787, many of the old ballads included in that 
volume bear traces of his hand ; but in the second volume, which appeared 
in March J 788, we find no fewer than five songs by Burns ; two that have 
been already mentioned, * and three far better than them, viz. Theidel 
Menzies honny Mary ; that grand lyric, 

" Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, 
The wretch's destiny, 
JMacpherson's time will not be long 
On yonder gallows tree ;" 

both of which performances bespeak the recent impressions of his Highland 
visit ; and, lastly, Whistle and III come to you^ my lad. Burns had been 
from his youth upwards an enthusiastic lover of the old minstrelsy and 
music of his country ; but he now studied both subjects with far better op- 
portunities and appliances than he could have commanded previously ; and 
it is from this time that we must date his ambition to transmit his own 
poetry to posterity, in eternal association with those exquisite airs which 
had hitherto, in far too many instances, been married to verses that did 
not deserve to be immortal. It is well known that from this time Burns 
composed very ^ew pieces but songs ; and whether we ought or not to re- 
gret that such was the case, must depend on the estimate we make of his 
songs as compared with his other poems ; a point on which critics are to this 
hour divided, and on which their descendants are not very like y to agree. 
Mr. Walker, who is one of those that lament Burns's comparative derelic- 
tion of the species of composition which he most cultivated in the early 
days of his inspiration, suggests very sensibly, that if Burns had not taken 
to song-writing, he would probably have written little or nothing amidst 
the various temptations to company and dissipation which now and hence- 
forth surrounded him — to say nothing of the active duties of life in which 

• '• Clarinda,' and " How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devoi." 



ixxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS 



I ! 



he was at lengtn about to be engaged. Burns was present, on the 31st oi j 
December, at a dinner to celebrate the birth-day of the unfortunate Prince i 
Charles Edward IStuart, and produced on the occasion an ode, part of which i 
Dr. Currie has preserved. The specimen will not induce any regret that 
the remainder of the piece has been suppressed. It appears to be a mouth- 
ing rhapsody — far, far different indeed from the Chevalier's Lament, which 
the poet composed some months afterwards, with probably the tithe oi 
the effort, while riding alone " through a track of melancholy muirs be- 
tween Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sunday." * 

For six weeks of the time that Burns spent this year in Edinburgh, he 
was confined to his room, in consequence of an overturn in a hackney coach. 
" Here I am," he writes, " under the care of a surgeon, with a bruised 
limb extended on a cushion, and the tints of my mind vying with the livid 
horrors preceding a midnight thunder-storm. A drunken coachman was 
the cause of the first, and incomparably the lightest evil ; misfortune, bodi- 
ly constitution, hell, and myself, have formed a quadimple alliance to gua- 
rantee the other. I have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, and am go/* 
half way through the five books of Moses, and half way in Joshua. It is 
really a glorious book. I sent for my bookbinder to-day, and ordered him 
to get an 8vo. Bible in sheets, the best paper and print in town, and bind 
it with all the elegance of his craft." f — In another letter, which opens gaily 
enough, we find him reverting to the same prevailing darkness of mood. 
" I can't say I am altogether at my ease when I see anywhere in my path 
that meagre, squalid, famine-faced spectre, Poverty, attended as he always 
is by iron-fisted Oppression, and leering Contempt. But 1 have sturdily 
withstood his buffetings many a hard-laboured day, and still my motto is 1 
DARE. My worst enemy is moi-meme. There are just two creatures that 
I would envy — a horse in his wild state traversing the forests of Asia, or 
an oyster on some of the desert shores of Europe. The one has not a wish 
without enjoyment ; the other has neither wish nor fear." \ — One more 
specimen may be sufficient. Ij " These have been six horrible weeks. 
Anguish and low spirits have made me unfit to read, write, or think. 1 have 
a hundred times wished that one could resign life as an officer does a com- 
mission ; for 1 would not take in any poor ignorant wretch by selling out» 
Lately, I was a sixpenny private, and God knows a miserable soldier enough : 
now I march to the campaign a starving cadet, a little more conspicuously 
wretched. I am ashamed of all this ; for though I do not want bravery for 
the warfare of life, I could wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much 
fortitude or cunning as to dissemble or conceal my cowardice." 

It seems impossible to doubt that Burns had in fact lingered in Edin- 
burgh, in the hope that, to use a vague but sufficiently expressive phrase, 
something would be done for him. He visited and revisited a farm,— talked 
and wrote about " having a fortune at the plough-tail," and so forth ; but 
all the while nourished, and assuredly it would have been most strange if 
he had not, the fond dream that the admiration of his country would ere 
long present itself in some solid and tangible shape. His illness and con- 
finement gave him leisure to concentrate his imagination on the darker side 
of his prospects ; and the letters which we have quoted may teach those 
who envy the powers and the fame of genius, to pause for a moment over 

• General Correspondence, No. 46. 

f Reliques, p. 43. % Ibid. p. 44. 

U General Correspondence, No. 43. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. tAHV 

the annals of literature, and think what superior capabilities of mi.ctrr/ have 
been, in the great majority of cases, interwoven with the possession of 
those very talents, from which all but their possessors derive unmingled 
gratification. Burns's distresses, however, were to be still farther aggravated. 
While still under the hands of his surgeon, he received intelligence from 
Mauchline that his intimacy with Jean Armour had once more exposec' 

I her to the reproaches of her family. The father sternly and at once turnec? 

j her out of doors ; and Burns, ufiable to walk across his room, had to write 
to his friends in Mauchline to procure shelter for his children, and for hei 
whom he considered as — all but his wife. In a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, 
written on hearing of this new misfortune, he says, " ' / wish I were dead, 
hut Tm no like to die.' I fear I am something like — undone ; but I hope for 
the best. You must not desert me. Your friendship I think I can count 
on, though I should date my letters from a marching regiment. Early in 
life, and all my life, I reckoned on a recruiting drum as my forlorn hope. Se- 
riously, though, life at present presents me with but a melancholy path 

But my limb will soon be sound, and I shall struggle on." * 

it seems to have been now that Burns at last screwed up his courage to 
solicit the active interference in his behalf of the Earl of Glencairn. The 
letter is a brief one. Burns could ill endure this novel attitude, and he 
rushed at once to his request. " I wish," says he, " to get into the excise. 
I am told your Lordship will easily procure me the grant from the com- 
missioners ; and your lordship's patronage and kindness, which have already 
rescued me from obscurity, wretchedness, and exile, embolden me to ask 
that interest. You have likewise put it in my power to save the little tie 
of home, that sheltered an aged mother, two brothers, and three sisters 
from destruction. There, my lord, you have bound me over to the highest 

gratitude My heart sinks within me at the idea of applying to any 

other of The Great who have honoured me -with their countenance. I am 
ill qualified to dog the heels of greatness with the impertinence of solicita- 
tion ; and tremble nearly as much at the thought of the cold promise as of 
the cold denial." f It would be hard to think that this letter was coldly or 
negligently received ; on the contrary, we know that Burns's gratitude to 
Lord Glencairn lasted as long as his life. But the excise appointment 
which he coveted was not procured by any exertion of his noble patron's 
influence. Mr. Alexander Wood, surgeon, (still affectionately remembered 
in Edinburgh as " kind old Sandy Wood,") happening to hear Burns, while 
his patient, mention the object of his wishes, went immediately, without 
dropping any hint of his intention, and communicated the state of the 
poet's case to Mr. Graham of Fintray, one of the commissioners of excise, 
who had met Burns at the Duke of A thole's in the autumn, and who im- 
mediately had the poet's name put on the roll. — " I have chosen this, my 
dear friend," (thus wrote Burns to Mrs. Dunlop), " after mature delibera- 
tion. The question is not at what door of Fortune's palace shall we enter 
in ; but what doors does she open to us ? I was not likely to get any thing 
to do. I wanted un but, which is a dangerous, an unhappy situation. I got 
this without any hanging on or mortifying solicitation. It is immediate 
bread, and, though poor in comparison of the last eighteen months of my 
i j existence, 'tis luxury in comparison of all my preceding life. Besides, the 
cotnmissioners are some of them my acquaintances, and all of them my 
firm friends." J 

* Reliques, p. 4H. + General Correspondence, No. 40. J Reliques, p. 50 



.xxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

Our poet seems to have kept up an angry correspondence during his con 
finement with his bookseller, Mr. Creech, whom he '!so abuses ver'/ heartily 
in his letters to his friends in Ayrshire. The publisher's accounts, however; 
when they were at last made up, mus* have given the impatient author a 
very agreeable surprise ; for, in his letter above quoted, to Lord Glencairn, 
we find him expressing his hopes that the gross profits of his book might 
amount to " better than £200," whereas, on the day of settling with Mr 
Creech, he found himself in possession of i 500, if not of i.600. Mr. Ni 
coll, the most intimate friend Burns had, writes to Mr John Lewars, ex- 
cise officer at Dumfries, immediately on hearing of the poet's death, — " He 
certainly told me that he received 1 GOO for the first Edinburgh edition, and 
£100 afterwards for the copyright." — Dr. Currie states the gross product 
of Creech's edition at i 500, and Burns himself, in one of his printed let- 
ters, at £400 only. Nicoll hints, in the letter already referred to, that 
Burns had contracted debts while in Edinburgh, which he might not wish 
to avow on all occasions ; and if we are to believe this — -and, as is probable, 
the expense of printing the subscription edition, should, moreover, be de- 
ducted from the 17 00 stated by Mr. Nicoll — the apparent contradictions 
in these stories may be pretty nearly reconciled. There appears to be 
reason for thinking that Creech subsequently paid more than ^100 for the 
copyright. If he did not, how came Burns to realize, as Currie states it 
at the end of his Memoir, " nearly ,£900 in all by his poems?" 

This supply came truly in the hour of need ; and it seems to have ele- 
vated his spirits greatly, and given him for the time a new stock of confi- 
dence ; for he now resumed immediately his purpose of taking Mr. Miller's 
farm, retaining his excise commission in his pocket as a dernier resort, to be 
made use of only should some reverse of fortune come upon him. His first 
act, however, was to relieve his brother from his difficulties, by advancing 
£180 or £200, to assist him in the management of Mossgiel. " I give my- 
self no airs on this," he generously says, in a letter to Dr. Moore, " for it 
was mere selfishness on my part. I vvas conscious that the wrong scale of 
the balance was pretty heavily charged, and I thought that the throwing a 
little filial piety and fraternal affection into the scale in my favour, might 
help o smooth matters at the grand recko7iing" * 

» Qenerid Correspondence, -^^^ C6. 



CHAPTER VII. 

t^VTENTS — Marries —~ Announcements, fapologeticalj, of the event — Remaj ks^~Secotn£t 
(1788) Farmer at Elliesland, on the NHh, in a romantic vicinity, six miles from Dumfries — 
The Muse wakeful as ever, while the Poet maintains a varied and extensive literary corre^ 
spondence with all and sundry — Remarks upon the correspondence — Sketch of his person 
and habits at this period by a brother poet, who shows cause against success in farming — 
The untoward conjunction of Gauger to Farmer — The notice of the squirearchy, and the 
calls of admiring visitors, lead too uniformly to the ultra i>.^nvivial life — Leaves Ellieslana 
(1791) to he exciseman in the town of Dumfries. 



'• To make a happy fireside clime 
For weans and wife — 
That's the true pathos and sublime 
Of human life." 

Burns, as soon as his bruised limb was able for a journey, went to Moss- 
giel, and went through the ceremony of a Justice -of Peace marriage with 
Jean Armour, in the writing-chambers of his friend Gavin Hamilton. He 
then crossed the country to Dalswinton, and concluded his bargain with 
Mr. Miller as to the farm of Elliesland, on terms which must undoubtedly 
have been considered by both parties, as highly favourable to the poet ; 
they were indeed fixed by two of Burns's own friends, who accompanied 
him for that purpose from Ayrshire. The lease was for four successive 
terms, of nineteen years each, — in all seventy six years ; the rent for the 
first three years and crops X'5() ; during the remainder of the period :t70 
per annum. Mr. Miller bound himself to defray the expense of any plan- 
tations which Burns might please to make on the banks of the river ; and, 
the farm-house and offices being in a delapidated condition, the new tenant 
was to receive £300 fiom the proprietor, for the erection of suitable build- 
ings. Burns entered on possession of his farm at Whitsuntide 1788, but 
the necessary rebuilding of the house prevented his removing Mrs. Burns 
thither until the season was far advanced. He had, moreover, to qualify 
himself for holding his excise commission by six weeks" attendance on the 
business of that profession at Ayr. From these circumstances, he led all 
the summer a wandering and unsettled life, and Dr. Currie mentions this 
as one of his chief misfortunes. The poet, as he says, was continually rid- 
ing between Ayrshire and Dumfriesshire, and often spending a night on 
the road, " sometimes fell into company, and forgot the resolutions he had 
formed." What these resolutions were, the poet himself shall tell us. On 
the third day of his residence at Elliesland, he thus writes to Mr. Ainslie : 
— " I have all along hitherto, in the warfare of life, been bred to arms, 
among the light-horse, the piquet guards of fancy, a kind of hussars and 
Highlanders of the brain ; but 1 am firmly resolved to sell out of these giddy 
battalions. Cost what it will, I am determined to buy in among the grave 
squadrons of heavy-armed thought, or the artillery corps of plodding co'^ 



ixxviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

trivance. . . . Were it not for the terrors of my ticklish situation e- 
specting a family of children, I am decidedly of opinion that the step 1 have 
taken is vastly for my happiness/' * 

To all his friends he expresses himself in terms of similar satisfaction in 
regard in his marriage. " Your surmise, Madam," he writes to Mrs. Dun- 
lop, "is just lam indeed a husband. Lfound a once much-loved, and 
still mu» ii-loved female, literally and truly cast out to the mercy of the 
naked elements, but as I enabled her to purchase a shelter ; and there is no 
sporting with a fello'^7- creature's happiness or misery. The most placid 
goodnature and sweetness of disposition ; a warm heart, gratefully devoted 
with all its powers to love me ; vigorous health and sprightly cheerfulness, 
set of! to the best advantage by a more than commonly handsome figure ; 
these, 1 think, in a woman, may make a good wife, though she should ne- 
ver have read a page but the Scriptures of the Old and New Testament, 

nor danced in a brighter assembly than a penny-pay wedding 

To jealousy or infidelity I am an equal stranger ; my preservative from the 
first, is the most thorough consciousness of her sentiments of honour, and 
her attachment to me ; my antidote against the last, is my long and deep- 
rooted aftection for her. in housewife matters, of aptness to learn, and 
activity to execute, she i^ eminently mistress, and during my absence in 
Nithsdale, sne is regularly and constantly an apprentice to my mother and 

i i sisters in their aairy, and other rural business You are right, 

i that a bachelor state would have ensured me more friends ; but from a 
I cause you will easiiy guess, conscious peace in the enjoyment of my own 

- 1 mind, and unmistrusting confidence in approaching my God, would .f^eldom 

i ! have been of the number." f 

Some months later he tells Miss Chalmers that his marriage " M^as not, 
perhaps, in consequence of the attachment of romance," — (he is addressing 
a young lady), — " but,'' he continues, " I have no cause to repent it. If 
1 have not got polite tatiie, modish manners, and fashionable dress, 1 am not 
sickened and disgustea with the multiform curse of boarding-school affec- 
tation ; and 1 have got the handsomest figure, the sweetest temper, the 
soundest constitution, and the kindest heart in the country. Mrs. Burns 
believes as firmly as her creed, that I am le plus hel esprit et le phis Jumnete 
honrnie in the universe ; although she scarcely ever, in her life, except the 
Scriptures and the Psalms of David in Metre, spent five minutes together 
on either prose or verse — I must except also a certain late publication of 
Scots poems, which she nas perused very devoutly, and all the ballads of 
the country, as she has (O the partial lover, you will say), the finest I 
vvoodnote-wild I ever heard." — It was during this honeymoon, as he calls } 
it, while chiefly resident in a miserable hovel at Eliiesland, X and only , , 

i I occasionally spending a day or two in Ayrshire, that be wrote the beai tifiil I 

I j song : II I 

I j "• Of a' the airts the wind can blaw F dearly like th'^ -sest, I 

I I Vox there the bonnie lassie lives, the lassie I lo'e best; 

I i There wildwoods grow, and rivers row, arid mony a hili between ;. 

! But day and night my fancy's iiight is ever vv'i' my Jean. 

j O blaw, ye westlin winds, blaw saft aniang the leai'y trees, j 

^^'i' gentle gale, frae niuir and dale, bring hame the laden bees, I 

And bring the lassie back to me, that's aye sac neat and clean ; | 

Ae blink o' her wad banish care, sae lovely is my Jean," ! 



Reliques, p. 03. -j- See General Correspondence, No. 53 ; and Reliques, p. 60. , , 

Reliques, p. 75. II Ibid, p 273. ' | ! 



I 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxix 

One of Burns's letters, written not long after this, contains a passage strong- 
ly marked with his haughtiness of character. " I have escaped," says he, 
" the fantastic caprice, the apish affectation, with all the other blessed 
boarding-school acquirements which are sometimes to be found among fe- 
males of the upper ranks, but almost universally pervade the misses of the 
would-be gentry."* 

" A discerning reader," says Mr. Walker, " will perceive that the let- 
ters in which he announces his marriage to some of his most respected cor- 
respondents, are written in that state when the mind is pained by reflect- 
ing on an rnwelcome step, and finds relief to itself in seeking arguments 
to justify the deed, ana essen its disadvantages in the opinion of others." f 
I confess I am not able to discern any traces of this kind of feeling in any 
of Burns's letters on this interesting and important occasion. The Rev. 
Hamilton Paul takes an original view of this business : — " Much praise," 
says he, •' has been lavished on Burns for renewing his engagement with 
Jean when in the blaze of his fame. . . The praise is misplaced. We 
do not think a man entitled to credit or commendation for doing what the 
law could compel him to perform. Burns was in reality a married man, 
and it is truly ludicrous to hear him, aware as he must have been, of the in- 
dissoluble power of the obligation, though every document was destroyed, 
talking of himself as a bachelor." | There is no justice in these remarks. 
It is very true, that, by a merciful fiction of the law of Scotland, the fe- 
male, in Miss Armour's condition, who produces a written promise of mar- 
riage, is considered as having furnished evidence of an irregular marriage 
having taken place between her and her lover ; but in this case the female 
herself had destroyed the document, and lived for many months not only 
not assuming, but rejecting the character of Burns's wife ; and had she, un- 
der such circumstances, attempted to establish a marriage, with no docu- 
ment in her hand, and with no parole evidence to show that any such do- 
cument had ever existed, to say nothing of proving its exact tenor, but 
that of her own father, it is clear that no ecclesiastical court in the world 
could have failed to decide against her. So far from Burns's having all 
along regarded her as his wife, it is extremely doubtful whether she had 
ever for one moment considered him as actually her husband, until he de- 
clared the marriage of 1788. Burns did no more than justice as well as 
honour demanded ; but the act was one which no human tribunal could 
have compelled him to perform. 

To return to our story. Burns complains sadly of his solitary condition, 
when living in the only hovel that he found extant on his farm. " I am," 
says he, (September 9th) •' busy with my harvest, but for all that most 
pleasurable part of life called social intercourse, I am here at the very el- 
bow of existence. The only things that are to be found in this country in 
any degree of perfection, are stupidity and canting. Prose they only know 
in graces, &c., and the value of these they estimate as they do their plaid- 
ing webs, by the ell. As for the muses, they have as much idea of a rhino- 
ceros as of a poet." And in another letter (September IGth) he says 
" This hovel that I shelter in while occasionally here, is pervious to every 
blast that blows, and every shower that falls, and I am only preserved 
from being chilled to death by being suffocated by smoke. You will be 
pleased to hear that I have laid aside idle eclat, and bind every day aftei 

* General Correspondence, No. 65. -|- Morris<>n, vol. i. p. Ixxxvii. 

X Paul's Life of Burns, p. 45. 



Ixxx LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

my reapers." His :ouse, however, did not take much time in building , 
nor liad he reason to complain of want of society long. He brought his 
\Tife home to Elliesland about the end of November ; and few housekeepers 
start with a larger provision of young mouths to feed than this couple. Mrs. 
Burns had lain in this autumn, for the second time, of twins, and I sup- 
pose " sonsy, smirking, dear-bought Bess,"* accompanied her younger bro- 
thers and sisters from Mossgiel. From that quarter also Burns brought a 
whole establishment of servants, male and female, who, of course, as was 
then the universal custom amongst the small farmers, both of the west and 
of the south of Scotland, partook, at the sanie table, of the same fare with 
their master and mistress. 

Elliesland is beautifully situated on the banks of the Nith, about six miles 
above Dumfries, exactly opposite to the house of Dalswinton, of those noble 
woods and gardens amidst which Burns's landlord, the ingenious Mr. Pa- 
trick Miller, found relaxation from the scientific studies and researches in 
which he so greatly excelled. On the Dalswinton side, the river washes 
lawns and groves ; but over against these the bank rises into a long red 
scaur, of considerable height, along the verge of which, where the bare 
shingle of the precipice all but overhangs the stream. Burns had his favou- 
rite walk, and might now be seen striding alone, early and late, especially 
when the winds were loud, and the waters below him swollen and turbu- 
lent. For he was one of those that enjoy nature most in the more serious 
and severe of her aspects ; and throughout his poetry, for one allusion 
to the liveliness of spring, or the splendour of summer, it would be easy 
to point out twenty in which he records the solemn delight with which he 
contemplated the melancholy grandeur of autumn, or the savage gloom o1 
winter ; and he has himself told us, that it was his custom " to take a 
gloamin' shot at the muses." 

The poet was accustomed to say, that the most happy period of his life 
was the first winter he spent at Elliesland, — for the first time under a roof 
of his own — with his wife and children about him — and in spite of oc- 
casional lapses into the melancholy which had haunted his youth, looking* 
forward to a life of well-regulated, and not ill-rewarded, industry. It is 
known that he welcomed his wife to her rooftree at Elliesland in the song, 

" I hae a wife o' mine ain, Fll partake \vi' naebody ; 
I'll tak cuckold frae nana, Fll gie cuckold to naebody ; 
1 hae a penny to spend — there —thanks to naebody ; 
1 hae naething to lend — I'll borrow frae naebody." 

In commenting on this " little lively lucky song," as he well calls it, Mr. A 
Cunningham says, " Burns had built his house, he had committed his 
seed-corn to the ground, he was in the prime, nay the morning of life — 
health, and strength, and agricultural skill were on his side — his genius 
had been acknowledged by his country, and rewarded by a subscription, 
more extensive than any Scottish poet ever received before ; no wonder, 
therefore, that he broke out into voluntary song, expressive of his sense ot 
importance and independence." 

Burns, in his letters of the year 1789, makes many apologies for doing 
but little in his poetical vocation ; his farm, without doubt, occupied much 
of his attention, but the want of social intercourse, of which he complained 
an his first arrival in Nithsdale, had by this time totally disappeared. On 

* Poetical IxvENrouY to Mr. Aiken, February 1786. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURN'S. Ixxxi 

the contrary, his company was courted eagerly, not only by his brother- 
farmers, but by the neighbouring gentry of all classes ; and now, too, for 
the first time, he began to be visited continually in his own house by curi- 
ous travellers of all sorts, who did not consider, any more than the gene- 
rous poet himself, that an extensive practice of hospitality must cost more 
time than he ought to have had, and far more money than he ever had, at 
his disposal. Meantime, he was not wholly regardless of the muses ; for 
in addition to some pieces which we have already had occasion to notice, 
he contributed to this year's Museum, The Thamea flows proudly to the 
Sea ; The lazy mist hangs, 8^c. ; The day returns^ my bosom hums ; Tam 
Glen^ (one of the best of his humorous songs) ; the splendid lyric, Go 
fetch to me a pint of loine, and My heart's in the Hielands, (in both of which, 
however, he adopted some lines of ancient songs to the same tunes); John 
Anderson, m part also a rifacciamento ; the best of all his Bacchanalian 
pieces, Willie brewed a peck o maut, written in celebration of a festive meet- 
ing at the country residence, in Dumfriesshire, of his friend Mr. Nicoll of 
the High School ; and lastly, that noblest of all his ballads. To Mary in 
Heaven. This celebrated poem was, it is on all hands admitted, composed 
by Burns in September 1789, on the anniversary of the day on which he 
heard of the death of his early love, Mary Campbell ; but Mr. Cromek 
has thought fit to dress up the story with circumstances which did not oc- 
cur. Mrs. Burns, the only person who could appeal to personal recollec- 
tion on this occasion, and whose recollections of all circumstances con- 
nected with the history of her husband's poems, are represented as being 
remarkably distinct and vivid, gives what may at first appear a more pro- 
saic edition of the histcrj'. * According to her. Burns spent that day, 
though labouring under cold, in the usual work of his harvest, and appa- 
rently in excellent spirits. But as the twilight deepened, he appeared to^ 
grow " very sad about something," and at length wandered out into the 
barn-yard, to which his wife, in her anxiety for his health, followed him, 
entreating him in vain to observe that frost had set in, and to return 
to the fireside. On being again and again requested to do so, he always 
promised compliance — but still remained where he was, striding up and 
down slowly, and contemplating the sky, which was singularly clear and 
starry. At last Mrs. Burns found him stretched on a mass of straw, with 
his eyes fixed on a beautiful planet " that shone like another moon ;" and 
prevailed on him to come in. He immediately on entering the house, called 
for his desk, and wrote exactly as they now stand, with all the ease of one 
copying from memory, the sublime and pathetic verses- 

"• Thou lingering star with lessening ray, , 

That lovest to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usher'st in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
O Mary, dear departed shade, 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ; 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid, 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?" &c. 

The Mothers Lament for her So?i, and Inscription in an Hermitage m 
Nithsdale, were also written this year. From the time when Burns settled 
himself in Dumfriesshire, he appears to have conductotl with much care 
the extensive correspondence in which his celebrity hod engaged him. The 

* I owe these particulars to JMr. Bl'Diarmid, the able editor of :he Dumfries Courier, and 
\jrother of the lamented author of '•'■ liives of Ijndsli tetatesmen." j 



I 



xxxil LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

etters that passed between him and his brother Gilbert, are among rtie 
Tfiost precious of the collection. That the brothers had entire knowledge 
of and confidence in each other, no one can doubt ; and the plain manlj 
affectionate language in which they both write, is truly honourable to them, 
and tx '■he parents that reared them. " Dear Brother," writes Gilbert, 
January Ist, 1789, " I have just finished my new-year's-day breakfast in 
the usual form, which naturally makes me call to mind the days of former 
years, and the society in which we used to begin them ; and when I look 
at our family vicissitudes, ' through the dark postern of time long elapsed,' 
I cannot help remarking to you, my dear brother, how good the God of 
seasons is to us ; and that, however some clouds may seem to lour over 
the portion of time before us, we have great reason to hope that all will 
turn out well." 

It was on the same new-year's-day that Burns himself addressed to Mrs. 
Dunlop a letter, part of which is here transcribed. It is dated Elliesland, 
New-year-day morning, 1 7 89, and certainly cannot be read too often : — 
" This, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes, and would to God that I 
came under the apostle James's ciescription ! — the prayer of a righteous man 
I avaikth much. In that case, madam, you should welcome in a year full of 
blessings ; every thing that obstructs or disturbs tranquillity and self-enjoy- 
ment, should be removed, and every pleasure that frail humanity can taste, 
should be yours. I own myself so little a Presbyterian, that I approve of 
set times and seasons of more than ordinary acts of devotion, for breaking 
in on that habituated routine of life and thought, which is so apt to reduce 
our existence to a kind of instinct, or even sometimes, and with some minds, 
i ! to a state very little superior to mere machinery. This day, — the first 
' j Sunday of May, — a breezy, blue-skyed moon sometime about the begin- 
] ning, and a hoary morning and calm sunny day about the end of autumn ; 
I these, time out of mind, have been with me a kind of holiday. 
I " I believe I owe this to that glorious paper in the Spectator, ' The 

; Vision of Mirza ;' a piece that struck my young fancy before I was capable 
i I of fixing an idea to a word of three syllables : ' On the 5th day of the moon, 
I I which, according to the custom of my forefathers, I always keep holy, after 
j : having washed myself, and offered up my morning devotions, I ascended 
I the high hill of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation 
I and prayer.' We know nothing, or next to nothing, of the substance or 
i i structure of our souls, so cannot account for those seeming caprices in 
I i them, that one should be particularly pleased with this thing, or struck 
I j with that, which, on minds of a different cast, makes no extraordinary im- 
j ; pression. I have some favourite flowers in spring, among which are the 
j I mountain-daisy, the hare-bell, the fox-glove, the wild brier-rose, the bud- 
I ding-birch, and the hoary hawthorn, that I view and hang over with par- 
I ticular delight. I never hear the loud, solitary whistle of the curlew in a 
summer noon, or the wild mixing cadence of a troop of grey plover, in an 
autumnal morning, without feeling an elevation of soul like the enthusiasm 
of devotion or poetry. Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this be ow 
ing ? Are we a piece of machinery, which, like the IEoWslw harp, passive, 
takes the impression of the passing accident ? Or do these workings argue 
something within*us above the trodden clod .^ I own myself partial to such 
proofs of those awful and important realities — a God that made all things 
. — man's immaterial and immortal nature — and a world of weal or woe h*^ 
vond death and the erave," 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxxj 

Few, it Is to be hoped, can read such things as these without deh'ght • 
none surely, that taste the elevated pleasure they are calculated to in- 
spire can turn from them to the well-known issue of Burns's history, with- 
out being afflicted. The " golden days" of Elliesland, as Dr. Currie justly 
calls them, were not destined to be many. Burns's farming speculations 
once more failed ; and he himself seems to have been aware that such was 
likely to be the case ere he had given the business many months' trial ; for, 
ere the autumn of 1788 was over, he applied to his patron, Mr. Graham of 
Fin tray, for actual emj)loyment as an exciseman, and was accordingly ap- 
pointed to do duty. Id that capacity, in the district where his lands were 
situated. His income, as a revenue officer, was at first only £'3b ; it by 
and by rose to i'50 ; and sometimes was £70. These pounds were hardly 
earned, since the duties of his new calling necessarily withdrew him very 
often from the farm, which needed his utmost attention, and exposed him, 
which was still worse, to innumerable temptations of the kind he was least 
likely to resist. 

I have now the satisfaction of presenting the reader with some particu- 
lars of this part of Burns's history, derived from a source which every 
lover of Scotland and Scottish poetry must be prepared to hear mentioned 
with respect. It happened that at the time when our poet went to Niths- 
dale, the fkther of Mr. Allan Cunningham was steward on the estate of 
Dalswinton : he was, as all who have read the writings of his sons will 
readily believe, a man of remarkable talents and attainments : he was a 
wise and good man ; a devout admirer of Burns's genius ; and one of those 
sober neighbours wlio in vain strove, by advice and warning, to arrest the 
poet in the downhill path, towards which a thousand seductions were per- 
petually drawing him. Mr. Allan Cunningham was, of course, almost a 
child when he first saw Burns ; but, in what he has to say on this subject, 
we may be sure we are hearing the substance of his benevolent and saga- 
cious father's observations and reflections. Mis own boyish recollections 
of the poet's personal appearance and demeanour will, however, be read 
with interest. *' I was very young," says Allan Cunningham, " when I 
first saw Burns. He came to see my father ; and their conversation turned 
partly on farming, partly on poetry, in both of which my father had taste 
and skill. Burns had just come to Nithsdale ; and I think he appeared a 
shade more swarthy than he does in Nasmyth's picture, and at least ten years 
older than he really was at the time. His face was deeply marked by 
thought, and the habitual expression intensely melancholy. His frame was 
very muscular and well proportioned, though he had a short neck, and 
something of a ploughman's stoop : he was strong, and proud of his strength 
I saw him one evening match himself with a number of masons ; and out 
of five-and- twenty practised hands, the most vigorous young men in the 
parish, there was only one that could lift the same weight as Burns. He 
had a very manly face, and a very melancholy look ; but on the coming of 
those he esteemed, his looks brightened up, and his whole face beamed 
with affection and genius. His voice was very musical. 1 once heard 
him read Tarn o Shunter. I think I hear him now. His fine manly voice 
followed all the undulations of the sense, and expressed as well as his ge- 
nius had done, the pathos and humour, the horrible and the awful, of tha*- 
wonderful performance. Asa man feels, so will he write ; and in propor- 
tion as he fevmpathlzes with his author, so will he read him with grace and 
piFect. 



I i 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



" I said that Burns and my father conversed about poetry and farming 
The poet had newly taken possession of his farm of Eih'esland, — the masons 
were busy building his house, — the applause of the world was with him, 
j ; and a little of its money in his pocket, — in short, he had found a resting- 
I I place at last. He spoke with great delight about the excellence of his 
j 1 farm, and particularly about the beauty of the situation. ' Yes,' my father 
I ; said, ' the walks on the river bank are fine, and you will see from your win- 
j i dows some miles of , the Nith ; but you will also see several farms of fine 
I I rich holm, * any on ^ of which you might have had. You have made a 
j i poet's choice, rather than a farmer's.' If Burns had much of a farmer's j j 
j ; skill, he had little of a farmer's prudence and economy. I once inquired [ i 
I i of James Corrie, a sagacious old farmer, whose ground marched with Ellies- | i 
j , land, the cause of the poet's failure. ' Faith,' said he, ' how could he miss 
I j but fail, when his servants ate the bread as fast as it was baked ? I don't 
mean figuratively, I mean literally. Consider a little. At that time close 
economy was necessary to have enabled a man to clear twent}- pounds a- 
year by Eliiesland. Now, Burns's own handy work was out of the ques- 
tion : he neither ploughed, nor sowed, nor reaped, at least like a hard- 
working farmer ; and then he had a bevy of servants from Ayrshire. The 
i j lasses did nothing but bake bread, and the lads sat by the fireside, and ate 
it warm with ale. Waste of time and consumption of food would soon 
reach to twenty pounds a-year.' 

" The truth of the case," says Mr. Cunningham, in another letter with 

which he has favoured me, " the truth is, that if Robert Burns liked his 

farm, it was more for the beauty of the situation than for the labours which 

it demanded. He was too wayward to attend to the stated duties of a 

! , husbandman, and too impatient to wait till the ground returned in gain the 

I i cultivation he bestowed upon it. The condition of a farmer, a Nithsdale | 

I I one, 1 mean, was then \eYj humble His one-story house had a covering | 

I of straw, and a clay floor ; the furniture was from the hands of a country | 

j carpenter ; and, between the roof and floor, there seldom intervened a | 

1 smoother ceiling than of rough rods and grassy turf — while a huge lang-settle j 

j I of black oak for himself, and a carved arm chair for his wife, were the only | 

j ! matters out of keeping with the homely looks of his residence. He took j 

I I all his meals in his own kitchen, and presided regularly among bis children j 

j j and domestics. He performed family worship every evening — except dur- 

j j ing the hurry of harvest, when that duty was perhaps limited to Saturday 

I j night. A few religious books, two or three favourite poets, the history of 

I J his country, and his Bible, aided him in forming the minds and manners of 

the family. To domestic education, Scotland owes as much as to the care 

of her clergy, and the excellence of her parish schools. 

*' The picture out of doors was less interesting. The ground from which 
the farmer sought support, was generally in a very moderate state of culti- 
vation. The implements with which he tilled his land were primitive and 
clumsy, and his own knowledge of the management of crops exceedingly 
limited. He plodded on in the regular slothful routine of his ancestors ; 
he rooted out no bushes, he dug up no stones ; he drained not, neither did 
lie enclose ; and weeds obtained theu full share of the dung and the lime, 
which he bestowed more like a medicine than a meal on his soil. His 
plough was the rude old Scotch one ; his harrows had as often teeth of 



* Ilohn is flat, rich meadow laiia, intervening between a stream and the general clevatiOH 
of the adjoim ng country. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



Ixxx^t 



wood as of iron ; his carts were heavy and low-wheeled, or were, more 
properly speaking, tumbler-carts, so called to distinguish them from trail 
carts, both of which were in common use. On these rude carriages his 
manure was taken to the field, and his crop brought home. The farmer 
himself corresponded in all respects with his imperfect instruments. His 
poverty secured him from risking costly experiments ; and his hatred of 
innovation made him entrench himself behind a breast- work of old maxims 
and rustic saws, which he interpreted as oracles delivered against improvc- 
ment. With ground in such condition, with tools so unfit, and with know- 
ledge so imperfect, he sometimes succeeded in wringing a ^^w hundred 
pounds Scots from the farm he occupied. Such was generally the state of 
agriculture when Burns came to Nithsdale. I know not how far his own 
skill was equal to the task of improvement — his trial was short and unfor- 
tunate. An important change soon took place, by which he was not fated 
to profit ; he had not the foresight to see its approach, nor, probably, the 
fjrtitude to await its coming. 

" In the year 1790, much of the ground in Nithsdale was leased at seven, 
and ten. and fifteen shillings per acre ; and the farmer, in his person and 
his house, differed little from the peasants and mechanics around him. He 
would have thought his daughter v-edded in her degree, had she married a 
joiner or a mason ; and at kirk or market, all men beneath the rank of a 
" portioner" of the soil mingled together, equeils in appearance and impor- 
tance. But the war which soon commenced, gave a decided impulse to 
agriculture ; the army and navy consumed largely ; corn rose in demand ; 
the price augmented ; more land was called Into cultivation ; and, as leases 
expired, the proprietors improved the grounds, built better houses, enlarg- 
ed the rents ; and the farmer was soon borne on the wings of sudden wealth 
above his original condition. His house obtained a slated roof, sash-windows, 
carpeted floors, plastered walls, and even began to exchange the hanks of 
yarn with wdiich it was formerly hung, for paintings and pianofortes. He 
laid aside his coat of home-made cloth ; he retired from his seat among his 
servants ; he — I am grieved to mention it — gave up family worship as a 
thing unfashionable, and became a kind o? rustic gentkinan., v.-ho rode a blood 
horse, and galloped home on market nights at the peril of his own neck, and 
to the terror of every modest pedestrian. When a change like this took 
nlace, and a farmer could, with a dozen years' industry, be able to purchase 
the land he rented — which many were, and many did — the same, or a still 
more profitable change might have happened with respect to Elllesland ; 
and Burns, had he stuck by his lease and his plough, would, in all human 
possibility, have found the Independence which he sought, and sought in 
vain, from the coldness and parsimony of mankind." 

Trlr. Cunningham sums up his reminiscences of Burns at Elhesland in 
these terms : — " During the prosperity of his farm, my father often said 
that Burnb conducted himself wisely, and like one anxious for his name as 
H man, and his fame as a poet. He went to Dunscore Kirk on Sunday, 
though he expressed oftener than once his dislike to the stern Calvinism ol 
that strict old divine, Mr. Kirkpatrick ; — he assisted in forming a reading 
club ; and at weddings and house-heatings, and kirns, and other scenes of fes- 
ti-^^'ty, he was a welcome guest, universally liked by the young and the old. 
But the failure of his farming projects, and the limited income with which 
he was compelled to support an increasing family and an e>fpenslve station 
in life, preyed on his spirits ; and, during these fits of despair, he was will 



xxxvi LIFE OF ROBERl BURNS. 

ing too often to become the companion of the thoughtless and the gross. ) 
am grieved to say, that besides leaving the book too much for the bowl, 
and grave and wise friends for lewd and reckless companions, he was also 
in the occasional practice of composing songs, in which he surpassed the 
licentiousness, as well as the wit and humour, of the old Scottish muse. 
These have unfortunately found their way to the press, and I am afraid 
they cannot be recalled. In conclusion, I may say, that few men have had 
so much of the poet about them, and few poets so much of the man ; — the 
man was probably less pure than he ought to have been, but the poet was 
pure and bright to the last." 

The reader must be sufficiently prepared to hear, that from the time 
when he entered on his excise duties, the poet more and more neglected 
the concerns of his farm. Occasionally, he might be seen holding the 
plough, an exercise in which he excelled, and was proud of excelling, or 
stalking down his furrows, with the white sheet of grain wrapt about him, 
a " tenty seedsman ;" but he was more commonly occupied in far different 
pursuits. " I am now," says he, in one of his letters, " a poor rascally 
gauger, condemned to gallop two hundred miles every week, to inspect 
dirty ponds and yeasty barrels." Both in verse and in prose he has recorded 
the feelings with which he first followed his new vocation. His jests on 
the subject are uniformly bitter. " I have the same consolation," he tells 
Mr Ainslie, " which I once heard a recruiting sergeant give to his audi- 
ence in the streets of Kilmarnock : ' Gentlemen, for your farther encourage- 
ment, I can assure you that ours is the most blackguard corps under the 
crown, and, consequently, with us an honest fellow has the surest chance 
of preferment.' " On one occasion, however, he takes a higher tone. " There 
is a certain stigma," says he to Bishop Geddes, " in the name of Excise- 
man ; but 1 do not intend to borrow honour from any profession :" — which 
may perhaps remind the reader of Gibbon's lofty language, on finally quit- 
ting the learned and polished circles of London and Paris, for his Swiss re- 
tirement : " I am too modest, or too proud, to rate my value by that of 
my associates." 

Burns, in his perpetual perambulations over the moors of Dumfriesshire, 
had every temptation to encounter, which bodily fatigue, the blandishments 
of hosts and hostesses, and the habitual manners of those who acted along 
with him in the duties of the excise, could present. He was, moreover, 
wherever he went, exposed to perils of his own, by the reputation w^hich 
he had earned as a poet, and by his extraordinary powers of entertainment 
in conversation. From the castle to the cottage, every door flew open at 
his approach ; and the old system of hospitality, then flourishing, rendered 
it difficult for the most soberly inclined guest to rise from any man's board 
in the same trim that he sat down to it. The farmer, if Burns was seen 
passing, left his reapers, and trotted by the side of Jenny Geddes, until 
he could persuade the bard that the day was hot enough to demand an 
extra-libation. If he entered an inn at midnight, after all the ir^mates 
were in bed, the news of his arrival circulated from the cellar to the garret; 
and ere ten minutes had elapsed, the landlord and all his guests were as- 
sembled round the ingle ; the largest punch-bowl was produced ; and 

" Be ours this nighi — who knows what comes to-morrow ?*' 

was the language of every eye in the circle that welcomed him. The 
stateliest gentry of the county, whenever they had especial merriment in 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxxvii 

\ie\v, called in the wit and eloquence of Burns to enliven their carousals.* 
The famous song of The Whistle of worth commemorates a scene of this 
kind, more picturesque in some of its circumstances than every day oc- 
w-^urred, yet strictly in character with the usual tenor of life among this jo- 
vial squirearchy. Three gentlemen of ancient descent, had met to deter- 
mine, by a solemn drinking match, who should possess the Whistle, which 
a common ancestor of them all had earned ages before, in a Bacchanalian 
contest of the same sort with a noble toper from Denmark ; and the poet 
was summoned to watch over and celebrate the issue of the debate 



A fine fat fodgel wight — 

Of stature short, but genius bright ;" 



and who has painted his own portrait, both with pen and pencil, at fuli 
length, in his Olio. This gentleman's taste and pursuits are ludicrously set 
forth in the copy of verses — 

• These particulars are from a letter of David IMacculloch, Esq., who, being at this period 
a very young man, a passionate admirer of Burns, and a capital singer of many of his serious 
songs, used often, in nis enthusiasm, to accompany the poet on his professional excursions. 

-f Burns's famous black punch-bowl, of Inverary marble, was the nuptial gift of I\[i Ar- 
mour, his father-in-law, who himself fashioned it. After passing through many hands, it is 
now in excellent keeping, that of Alexander Hastie, Esq. ot London. 



i 



*' Then up rose the bard like a prophet in drink, 

Craigdarroch shall soar when creation shall sink ; j 

But if thou would'st flourish immortal in rhyme, | ! 

Come, one bottle more, and have at the sublime.'* j 

Nor, as has already been hinted, was he safe from temptations of this kind, 
even when he was at home, and most disposed to enjoy in quiet the socie- 
ty of his wife and children. Lion-gazers from all quarters beset him ; they 
ate and drank at his cost, and often went away to criticise him and his 
fare, as if they had done Burns and his black howl f great honour in con- 
descending to be entertained for a single evening, with such company and 
such liquor. 

We have on record various glimpses of him, as he appeared while he 
was half-farmer, half-exciseman; and some of these present him in atti- 
tudes and aspects, on which it would be pleasing to dwell. For example, 
the circumstances under which the verses on The wounded Hare were 
written, are mentioned generally by the poet himself. James Thomson, 
son of the occupier of a farm adjoining Elliesland, told Allan Cunningham, 
that it was he who wounded the animal. " Burns," said this person, " was 
in the custom, when at home, of strolling by himself in the twilight every 
evening, along the Nith, and by the march between his land and ours. 
The hares often came and nibbled our wheat braird ; and once, in the 
gloaming, — it was in April, — I got a shot at one, and wounded her : she ran 
bleeding by Burns, who was pacing up and down by himself, not far from 
me. He started, and with a bitter curse, ordered me out of his sight, or 
he would throw me instantly into the Nith. And had I stayed, I'll war- 
rant he would have been as good as his word — though I was both young 
and strong." 

Among other curious travellers who found their way about this time to 
Elliesland, was Captain Grose, the celebrated antiquarian, whom Burns 
briefly describes as 



- 
1 ^ 



I ! 



1 ixxxviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

I I 

I I " Hear, Land o' Cakes and brither Scots, 

j I Frae Maidenkirk to John O'Groats, 

: I ■ A chiold's amaiig ye takin' notes," &c. 

! and, infer alia, his love of port is not forgotten, Grose and Burns had too 

I much in common, not to become great friends. The poet's accurate know- 

j ledge c? Scottish phraseology and customs, was of great use to the re- 

j searches of the humourous antiquarian ; and, above all, it is to their ac- 
quaintance that we owe Tam o Shanter. Burns told the story as he had 
heard it in Ayrshire, in a letter to the Captain, and was easily persuaded 

I ! to versify it. The poem was the work of one day ; and Mrs. Burns well rc- 

I j members the circumstances. He spent most of the day on his favourite walk 

I j by the river, where, in the afternoon, she joined him with some of her 

i I children. " F^e was busily engaged crooning to himsell, and Mrs. Burns 

i i perceiving that her presence was an interruption, loitered behind with her 

j i little ones among the broom. Her attention was presently attracted by the 

i strange and wild gesticulations of the bard, who, now at some distance, 

i was agonized with an ungovernable access of joy. He was reciting very 
loud, and with the tears rolling down his cheeks, those animated verses 
vrhich he had just conceived ; — 

i I " Now Tam ! O Tam ! had they been queans, 

i A' plump and strappin' in their teens ; 

I ■ Their sarks, instead of creeshie flannen, 

j Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder *linen, — 

j j Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 

I That ance were plush o' good blue hair, 

i I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies, 

I I For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies !" -|- 



j j To the last Burns was of opinion that Tam d Shanter was the best of 
i j all his productions ; and although it does not always happen that poet and 
j j public come to the same conclusion on such points, I believe the decision in 
j question has been all but unanimously approved of. The admirable execu- 
I tion of the piece, so far as it goes, leaves nothing to wish for ; the only cri- 
I ticism has been, that the catastrophe appears unworthy of the preparation. 
i i Burns lays the scene of this remarkable performance almost on the spot 
I I where he was born ; and all the terrific circumstances by which he has 
marked the progress of Tam's midnight journey, are drawn from local tra- 
dition. 

" By this time he was cross the ford 

Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd, 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Whare drucken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; 
j And through the whins, and by the cairn, 

Whare hunter's fand the murder'd bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Whare IMungo's mither hang'd hersell." 

None of these tragic memoranda were derived from imagination. Nor was 
Tam o' Shanter himself an imaginary character. Shanter is a farm close 
to Kirkoswald's, that smuggling village, in which Burns, when nineteen 
years old, studied mensuration, and " first became acquainted with scenes 
Df swaggering riot." The then occupier of Shanter, by name Douglas 

* " The manufacturer's term for a fine linen, woven on a reed of 1700 divisions."— Cror^ze/i:. 

-f- 'I'he above is quoted from a IMS. journal of Cromek. JNlr. M'Diarniid confirms the 
statement, nnd adds, that the poet, havmg committed the verses to writing on the top of hia 
%()(l-ibjkc over tlie water, came into the house, and read them immediately in high triumph at 
he fireside. 



^! 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. Ixxxix 

(Jraliame, was, by all accounts, equally what the Tarn of the poet appears, 
— a jolly, careless, rustic, who took much more interest in the contrabnnd 
traffic of the coast, than the rotation of crops. Burns knew the man weil ; 
and to his dying day, he, nothing loath, passed among his rural compeers 
by the name of Tam o' Shanter. 

A few words will bring us to the close of Burns's career at Elliesland. 
Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, happening to pass through Nithsdale in 1790, 
met Burns riding rapidly near Closeburn. The poet was obliged to pursue 
his professional journey, but sent on Mr. Ramsay and his fellow-traveller 
to Elliesland, where he joined them as soon as his duty permitted him, 
saying, as he entered, " I come, to use the words of Shakspeare, stewed 
in haste." Mr. Ramsay was " much pleased with his ttxor Sahina qualis, 
•vcxd his modest mansion, so unlike the habitation of ordinary rustics." 
The evening was spent delightfully. A gentleman of dry temperament, 
who looked In accidentally, soon partook the contagion, and sat listen- 
ing to Burns with the tears running over his cheeks. "- Poor Burns!" sayF 
Mr. Ramsay, " from that time I met him no more." 

The summer after, some English travellers, calling at Elliesland, were 
told that the poet was walking by the river. They proceeded in search ot 
him, and presently, " on a rock that projected into the stream, they saw 
a man employed in angling, of a singular appearance. He had a cap made 
of a fox's skin on his head ; a loose great -coat, fastened round him by a 
belt, from which depended an enormous Highland broadsword. It was 
Burns. He received them with great cordiality, and asked them to share 
his humble dinner." These tra^'ellers also classed the evening they spent 
at Elliesland with the brightest ^'f their lives. 

Towards the close of 1791, the poet, finally despairing of his farm, ae- 
termined to give up his lease, which the kindness of his landlord rendered 
easy of arrangement ; and procuring an appointment to the Dumfries divi- 
sion, which raised his salary from the revenue to ,t70 per annum, removed 
his family to the county town, in which he terminated his days. His con- 
duct as an excise officer had hitherto met with uniform approbation ; and 
he nourished warm hopes of being promoted, when he had thus avowedly 
devoted himself altogether to the service. He left EHiesland, however, 
with a heavy heart. The affection of his neighbours was rekindled in all its 
early fervour by the thoughts of parting with him ; and the roup of his 
farming-stock and other effects, was, in spite of whisky, a very melancholy 
scene. The competition for his chatties was eager, each being anxious to 
secure a memorandum of Burns's residence among them. It is pleasing to 
know, that among other " titles manifold" to their respect and gratitude, 
Burns had superintended the formation of a subscription library in the parish. 
His letters to the booksellers on this subject do him much honour: his 
choice of authors (which business was naturally left to his discretion) being 
in the highest degree judicious. Such institutions are now common, almost 
universal, indeed, In all the rural districts of southern Scotland ; but it 
should never be forgotten that Burns was among the first, if not the very 
first, to set the example. " He was so good," says Mr. Riddel, " as to 
take the whole management of this concern ; he was treasurer, librarian, 
and censor, to our little society, who will long have a grateful sense of his 
public spirit, and exertions for their improvement and information." Once, 
and only once, did Burns quit his residence at Elliesland to revisit Edin- 
burgh. His object was to close accounts with Creech ; that business ac- 



Kc LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

complished, he returnee^ immediately, and he never again saw the capital 
He thus writes to Mrs. Dunlop : — " Td a man who has a home, however 
humble and remote, if that home is, like mine, the scene of domestic com- 
fort, the bustle of Edinburgh will soon be a business of sickening disgust — 

" Vain pomp and glor of the world, I hate you !" 

« When I must skulk into a corner, lest the rattling equipage of some gai> 
Ing blockhead should mangle me in the mire, I am tempted to exclaim, 
what merits had he had, or what demerits have I had, in some state o( 
pre- existence, that he is ushered into this state of being with the sceptre 
of rule, and the key of riches in his puny fist, and I kicked into the world, 
the sport of folly or the victim of pride .... often as I have glided with 
humble stealth through the pomp of Prince's Street, it has suggested itseli 
to me as an improvement on the present human figure, that a man, in pro- 
portion to his own conceit of his consequence in the world, could have 
pushed out the longitude of his common size, as a snail pushes out his 
horns, or as we draw out a perspective ' 



I I 



CHAPTER ^ITI. 

Ct)NTENTS Is mare beset in tnwn than country — Ills early biographers, (Dr. Currie not ex- 

ceptcd), have coloured too darkly under that head — It is not correct to speak of the poet at 
haviyig sunk into a toper, or a solitary drinker, or of his revels as other than occasional, or oj 
their having interfered with the pjtrictual discharge of his official duties — He is shown to 
hai;e been the affectionate and beloved husband, although passing follies imputed ; and the 
constant and most assiduous instructor of his children — Impulses of the French Hevolution 
— Symptoms of fraternizing — The attention of his official superiors is called to them — Prac- 
tically no blow is inflicted, only the bad name — Interesting details of this period--— Gives his 
whole soul to song making — Preference in that for his native dialect, with the other attendm 
ant facts, as to the portion of his immortal lays. 



The King's most humble servant, i 
Can scarcely spare a minute; 
But I am yours at dinner-time, 
Or else the devil's in it.*' * 



The four principal biographers of our poet, Heron, Currie, Walker, anh 
Irving, concur in the general statement, thart his moral course from the 
*ime when he settled in Dumfries, was downwards. Heron knew more of 
«he matter personally than any of the others, and his words are these : — 
" In Dumfries his dissipation became still more deeply habitual. He was 
here exposed more than in the country, to be solicited to share the riot 
of the dissolute and the idle. Foolish young men, such as writers' ap- 
prentices, young surgeons, merchants' clerks, and his brother excise- 
men, flocked eagerly about him, and from time to time pressed him to 
drink with them, that they might enjoy his wicked wit. The Caledonian 
Club, too, and the Dumfries and Galloway Hunt, had occasional meet- 
ings in Dumfries after Burns came to reside there, and the poet was of 
course invited to share their hospitality, and hesitated not to accept the 
invitation. The morals of the town were, in consequence of its becom- 
ing so much the scene of public amusement, not a little corrupted, and 
though a husband and a father, Burns did not escape sufiering by the gene- 
ral contamination, in a manner which I forbear to describe. In the inter- 
nals between his different fits of intemperance, he suffered the keenest an- 
guish of remorse and horribly afflictive foresight. His Jean behaved with 
a degree of maternal and conjugal tenderness and prudence, M^iich made 
him feel more bitterly the evils of his misconduct, though they could not 
reclaim him." — This picture, dark as it is, wants some distressing shades 
that mingle in the parallel one by Dr. Currie ; it wants nothing, however, 
of which truth demands the insertion. That Burns, dissipated, ere he went 
to Dumfries, became still more dissipated in a town, than he had been in 
the country, is certain. It may also be true, that his wife had her oww 

• " The above answer to an invitation was written extempore on a leaf torn from his Ex- 
eiie-book.— Crof««A:'f MSS 



Kcii LIFE OF ROBF, UT BUIIXS. 

particular causes, sometimes, for dissatisfaction. But that Burns ever sunk 
mto a toper — that he ever was addicted to solitary drinking — that his bot- 
tle ever interfered with his discharge of his duties as an exciseman — or 
that, in spite of some transitory follies, he ever ceased to be a most affec- 
tionate husband — all these charges have been insinuated — and they are all 
false. His intemperance was, as Heron says, mjits; his aberrations of all 
kinds were occasional, not systematic ; they were all to himself the sources 
of exquisite misery in the retrospect ; they were the aberrations of a man 
whose moral sense M^as never deadened; — of one who encountered more 
temptations from without and from wathin, than the immense majority ol 
mankind, far from having to contend against, are even able to imagine ; — 
of one, tinally, who prayed for pardon, where alone effectual pardon could 
be found ; — and who died ere he had reached that term of life up to which 
ihe passions of many, who, their mortal career being regarded as a whole, 
are honoured as among the most virtuous of mankind, have proved too 
strong for the control of reason. We have already seen that the poet was 
careful of decorum in all things during the brief space of his prosperity at 
Elliesland, and that he became less so on many points, as the prospects of 
his farming speculation darkened around him. It seems to be equally certain, 
that he entertained high hopes of promotion in the excise at the period of 
his removal to Dumfries ; and that the comparative recklessness of his 
later conduct there, was consequent on a certain overclouding of these pro- 
fessional expectations. The case is broadl}^ stated so by Walker and Paul : 
and there are hints to the same effect in the narrative of Curric T'"-^ 
statement has no doubt been exaggerated, but it has its foundation in truth ; 
and by the kindness of Mr. Tram, sup-ervisor at Castle Douglas in Galio^ 
way, 1 shall presently be enabled to give some details which may thron 
light on this business. 

Burns was much patronised when in Edinburgh by the Honourable Henry 
Erskine, Dean of the Faculty of Advocates, and other leading Whigs of 
the place — much more so, to their honour be it said, than by any of the 
influential adherents of the then administration. His landlord at Ellies- 
land, Mr. Miller of Dalswinton, his neighbour. Mr. Riddel of PViars Carse, 
and most of the other gentlemen who showed him special attention, belong- 
ed to the same political party ; and, On his removal to Dumfries, it so hap- 
pened, that some of his immediate superiors in the revenue service of the 
district, and other persons of standing authority, into whose society he was 
thrown, entertained sentiments of tlie same description. Burns, whenever 
in his letters he talks seriously of political matters, uniformly describes his 
early jacobitism as mere " matter of fancy." It may, however, be easily 
believed, that a fanc}^ like his, long indulged in dreams of that sort, was 
well prepared to pass into certain other dreams, which likewise involved 
'feelings of dissatisfaction v/ith " the existing order of things." Many of 
the old elements of political disaffection in Scotland, put on a new shape at 
the outbreaking of the French Revolution ; and Jacobites became half jaco- 
bins, ere they were at all aware in what the doctrines of jacobinism weie 
to end. The Whigs naturally regarded the first dawn of freedom in France 
w^ith feelings of sympathy, delight, exultation. The general, the all but 
univer.sal tone of feeling was favourable to the first assailants of the Bour- 
bon despotism ; and there were few who more ardently participated in the 
general sentiment of the day than Burns. The revulsion of feeling that 
took place in this country at large, when wanton atrocities began to stain 



' I 



i I LIFE ul^ ilUBEKI' BURNS. xciii 

i . , 

I I the course of the French Revolution, and Burke hfted his powerful voice, 

was great. Scenes more painful at the time, and more so even now in the 
retrospect, than had for generations afflicted Scotland, were the conse- 
(juences of the rancour into which party feelings on both sides nv)w rose and i 
fermented. Old and dear ties of friendship were torn in sunder ; society 
was for a time shaken to its centre. In the most extravagant dreams ol 
the Jacobites there had always been much to command respect, high chi- 
valrous devotion, reverence for old affections, ancestral loyalty, and the 
generosity of romance. In the new species of hostility, every thing seemed 
mean as well as perilous ; it was scorned even more than hated. The very 
name stained whatever it came near ; and men that had known and loved 
each other from boyhood, stood aloof, if this influence interfered, as if it 
had been some loathsome pestilence. 

There was a great deal of stately Toryism at this time in the town ol 
Dumfries, whicii was the favourite winter retreat of many of the best gen- 
tlemen's families of the south of Scotland. Feelings that worked more 
violently in Edinburgh than in London, acquired additional energy still, in 
this provincial capital. All men's eyes were upon Burns. He was the 
standing marvel of the place ; his toasts, his jokes, his epigrams, his songs, 
were the daily food of conversation and scandal ; and he, open and care- 
less, and thinking he did no great harm in saying and singing what many 
of his superiors had not the least objection to hear and applaud, soon be- 
gan to be considered among the local admirers and disciples of King George 
the Third and his minister, as the most dangerous of all the apostles of se- 
dition, — and to be shunned accordingly. 

The records of the Excise-Office are silent concerning the suspicions 
vrhich the Commissioners of the time certainly took up in regard to ];urns 
IS a political offender — according to the phraseology of the tempestuous 
period, a democrat In that department, as then conducted, I am assured 
that nothing could have been more unlike the usual course of things, than 
that one syllable should have been set down in writing on such a subject, 
unless the case had been one of extremities. That an inquiry was insti- 
tuted, we know from Burns's own letters — but what the exact termination 
of the inquiry was, will never, in all probability, be ascertained. Accord- 
ing to the tradition of the neighbourhood. Burns, iiite?- alia, gave great of- 
fence by demurring in a large mixed company to the proposed toast, " the 
health of William Pitt ;" and left the room in indignation, because the so- 
ciety rejected what he wished to substitute, namely, " the health of a 
greater and a better man, George Washington." 1 suppose the warmest 
admirer of Mr. Pitt's talents and politics would hardly venture now-a-days 
to dissent substantially from Burns's estimate of the comparative merits of 
these two great men. The name of Washington, at all events, when con- 
temporary passions shall have finally sunk into the peace of the grave, will 
unquestionably have its place in the first rank of heroic virtue. — a station 
which demands the exhibition of victory pure and unstained over tempta- 
tions and trials extraordinary, in kind as well as strength. But at the time 
when Burns, being a servant of Mr. Pitt's government, was guilty of this 
indiscretion, it is obvious that a great deal " more was meant than reached 
the ear." In the poet's own correspondence, we have traces of another oc- 
currence of the same sort. Burns thus writes to a gentleman at whose 
table he had dined the day before :■ — " 1 was, I know, drunk last night, but 
I am sober this morning. From the expressions Captain made use 



xciv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

of to me, had I liad nobody's welfare to care for but my own, we should 
certauily have come, according to the manner of the world, to the neces- 
sity of murdering one another about the business. The words were such 
as generally, I believe, end in a brace of pistols ; but I am still pleased to 
think that I did not ruin the peace and welfare of a wife and children in 
a drunken squabble. Farther, you know that the report of certain political 
opinions being mine, has already once before brought me to the brink of 
destruction. I dread last night's business may be interpreted in the same 
way. You, I beg, will take care to prevent it. I tax your wish for Mrs. 
Burns's welfare with the task of waiting on every gentleman who was pre- 
sent to state this to him ; and, as you please, show this letter. What, af- 
ter all, was the obnoxious toast ? May our success in the present war he equal 
to the justice of our cause — a toast that the most outrageous frenzy of loyalty 
cannot object to." — Burns, no question, was guilty of unpoliteness as well 
as indiscretion, in offering any such toasts as these in mixed company ; but 
that such toasts should have been considered as attaching any grave sus- 
picion to his character as a loyal subject, is a circumstance which can only 
be accounted for by reference to the exaggerated state of political feelings 
on all matters, and among all descriptions of men, at that melancholy pe- 
riod of disaffection, distrust, and disunion. Who, at any other period than 
that lamentable time, would ever have dreamed of erecting the drinking, 
or declining to drink, the health of a particular minister, or the approving, 
or disapproving, of a particular measure of government, into the test of a 
man's loyalty to his King? 

Burns, eager of temper, loud of tone, and with declamation and sarcasm 
equally at command, was, we may easily believe, the most hated of human 
beings, because the most dreaded, among the provincial champions of the 
administration of which he thought fit to disapprove. But that he ever, in 
his most ardent moods, upheld the principles of those whose applause of 
the French Revolution was but the mask of revolutionary designs at home, 
I after these principles had been really developed by those that maintained 
them, and understood by him, it may be safely denied. There is not, in 
I all his correspondence, one syllable to give countenance to such a charge. 
j His indiscretion, however, did not always confine itself to words; and 
I though an incident now about to be recorded, belongs to the year 1792, 
I before the French war broke out, there is reason to believe that it formed 
j the main subject of the inquiry which the Excise Commissioners thought 
! themselves called upon to institute touching the politics of our poet. 
j At that period a great deal of contraband traffic, chiefly from the Isle of 

I Man, was going on along the coasts of Galloway and Ayrshire, and the 
j whole of the revenue officers from Gretna to Dumfries, were placed under 
I the orders of a superintendent residing in Annan, who exerted himself 
zealously in intercepting the descent of the smuggling vessels. On the 
27th of February, a suspicious-looking brig was discovered in the Solway 
Frith, and Burns was one of the party whom the superintendent conducted 
to watch her motions. She got into shallow water the day afterwards, and 
the officers were enabled to discover that her crew were numerous, armed, 
and not likely to yield without a struggle. Lewars, a brother exciseman^ 
an intimate friend of our poet, was accordingly sent to Dumfries for a 
guard of dragoons ; the superintendent, Mr. Crawford, proceeded himself 
! on a similar errand to Ecclefechan, and Burns was left with some men un- 
( der his orders, to watch the brig, and prevent landing or escape. Frarr 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. x.v 

the private journal of one of the excisemen, (now in my hands), it appears 
that Burns manifested considerable impatience while thus occupied, being 
(eft for many hours in a wet salt-marsh, with a force which he knew to be 
inadequate for the purpose it was meant to fulfil. One of his comrades 
hearing him abuse his friend Lewars in particular, for being slow about his 
journey, the man answered, that he also wished the devil had him for his 
pains, and that Burns, in the meantime, would do well to indite a song upon 
the sluggard : Burns said nothing ; but after taking a few strides by himself 
among the reeds and shingle, rejoined his party, and chanted to them thif 
w^ll-known ditty : — 

" The de'il cam' fiddlin.cr thro' the town, 
And danc'd awa' wi' the Exciseman ; 
And ilk auld wife cry'd, ' Auld Mahoun, 
' We wish you luck o' the prize, man. 

Chorus — ' We'll mak' our maut, and brew our drink, 
' We'll dance and sing and rejoice, man ; 
' And mony thanks to the muckle black de'il 
' That danc'd awa' wi' the Exciseman 

* There's threesome reels, and foursome reels, 

* There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; 

' But the ae best dance e'er cam' to our Ian', ' 

' Was the deil's aw^a' wi' the Exciseman.' " 

Lewars arrived shortly afterwards with his dragoons ; and Burns, putting 
himself at their head, waded, sword in hand, to the brig, and was the first to 
Doard her. The crew lost heart, and submitted, though their numbers were 
greater than those of the assailing force. The vessel was condemned, and, 
with all her arms and stores, sold by auction next day at Dumfries : upon 
which occasion Burns, whose behaviour had been highly commended, 
thought fit to purchase four carronades, by way of trophy. But his glee 
went a step farther ; — he sent the guns, with a letter, to the French Con- 
vention, requesting that body to accept of them as a mark of his admiration 
and respect. The present, and its accompaniment, were intercepted at the 
custom-house at Dover ; and here, there appears to be little room to do'ibt, 
ivas the principal circumstance that drew on Burns the notice of hi^ ^ealous 
superiors. We were not, it is true, at war with France ; but every one 
j knew and felt that we were to be so ere long ; and nobody can pretend 
I that Burns was not guilty, on this occasion, of a most sbsurd and presump- 
tuous breach of decorum. When he learned the Impression that had been 
I created by his conduct, and its probable consequences, he wrote to his pa- 
I r.ron, Mr. Graham of Fintray, the iV'bwing letter, dated December 1792: 

*' Sir, — 1 f^ave been surprised, confiDunded, and distracted by Mr. Mit- 
rJiell, the collector, telhng me that he has received an order from your 
board to inquire into my political conduct, and blaming me as a person 
disaffected to government Sir, you are a husband and a father. You 
know what you would feel to see the much-loved wife of your bosom, and 
your helpless, prattling little ones turned adrift into the world, degraded 
and disgraced, from a situation in which they had been respectable and re- 
spected, and left almost without -the necessary support of a miserable exist- 
ence. Alas ! Sir, must I think that such soon will be my lot? and from the 
damned dark insinuations of hellish, groundless envy too ? I believe, Sir, I 
may aver it, and in the sight of Omniscience, that I would not tell a deli- 



I kzvt LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. I j 

j berate falsehood, no, not though even worse horrors, if worse can be, thar I 
i those I have mentioned, hung over my head. And I say that the allega- 
I lion, whatever villain has made it, is a lie. To the British Constitution, I 
i on revolution principles, next, after my God, I am most devoutly attached | 
i You, !Sir, have been much and generously my friend. Heaven knows hcj^ j 
! warmly I have felt the obligation, and how gratefully I have thanked you ' 
I Fortune, Sir, has made you powerful, and me impotent ; has given you pa- \ 
I tronage, and me dependence. I would not, for my single self, call on your ' 
j humanity : were such my insular, unconnected situation, 1 would disperse | 
i the tear that now swells in my eye ; 1 could brave misfortune ; I could face 
I ruin ; at the worst, ' death's thousand doors stand open.' But, good God ! j 
I the tender concerns ti .it I have mentioned, the claims and ties that 1 see 
! at this moment, and feel around me, how they unnerve courage and wither 
j resolution ! To your patronage, as a man of some genius, you have allowed 
me a claim ; and your esteem, as an honest man, I know is my due. To 
I these. Sir, permit me to appeal. By these may I adjure you to save me 
I from that misery which threatens to overwhelm me ; and which, with my 
! latest breath, 1 will say I have not deserved !" 

! On the 2d of January, (a week or two afterwards), we find him writing to 

I Mrs. Dunlop in these terms : — '•' Mr. C. can be of little serv ice to me at 
present ; at least, 1 should be shy of applying. I cannot probably be set- 
tled as a supervisor for several years. 1 must wait the rotation of lists, 
&c. Besides, some envious malicious devil has raised a little demur on my 
political principles, and 1 wish to let that matter settle before I offer my- 
self too much in the eye of my superiors. 1 have set henceforth a seal on 
my lips, as to these unlucky politics ; but to you I must breathe my senti- 
ments. In this, as in every thing else, I shall show the undisguised emo- 
i tions of my soul. War, I deprecate : misery and ruin to thousands are in 

the blast that announces the destructive demon. But " 

I " The remainder of this letter," says Cromek, " lias been torn away by 
j some barbarous hand/' — There can be little doubt that it was torn away by 
I one of the kindest hands in the world, that of jMrs. Dunlop herself, and 
j from the most praise-worth motive. 

I The exact result of the Excise Board's investigation is hidden, as has 

I been said above, in- obscurity ; nor is it at all likely that the cloud will be 
I withdrawn hereafter. A general impression, hoM^ever, appears to have 
gone forth, that the affair terminated in something which Burns himseh 
considered as tantamount to the destruction of all liope of future promo- 
tion in his profession ; and it has been insinuated by almost every one ot 
I his biographers, that the crushing of these hopes operated unhappily, even 
I fatally, on the tone of his mind, and, in consequence, on the habits of his 
; life. In a word, the early death of Burns has been (by implication at least ^ 
ascribed mainly to the circumstances in question. Even Sir Walter ^cot* 
I has distinctly intimated his acquiescence in this prevalent notion. " The 
! political predilections," says he, " for they could hardly be termed princi- i 
I pies, of Burns, were entirely determined by his feelings. At his first ap- 
i pearance, he felt, or affected, a propensity to Jacobitism. Indeed, a youth 
of his warm imagination in Scotland thirty years ago, could hardly escape 
I this bias. The side of Charles Edward was that, not surely of sound sense 
I and sober reason, but of romantic gallantry and high achievement. The i 
I 'nadequacy of the means by which that prince attempted to regain the 
I eroun forfeited by his fatherS; the stran<^e and almost poetical adventures 



IIFE OF ROBERT BURXS. xcvn 

w^bicli he underwent, — the Scottish martial character, honoured in hjs vic- 
tories, and degraded and crushed in his defeat, — the tales of the veterans 
who had followed his adventurous standard, were all calculated to impress 
upon the mind of a poet a warm interest in the cause of the House of 
Stuart. Yet the impression was not of a very serious cast; for Burns him- 
self acknowledges in one of his letters, (Ileliques, p. 240), that ' to tell 
the matter of fact, except when my passions were heated by some acci- 
dental cause, my Jacobitism was merely by way of vice la bagatelle.'' The 
same enthusiastic ardour of disposition swayed Burns in his choice of poli- 
tical tenets, when the country was agitated by »-evolutionary principles. 
That the poet should have chosen the side on which high talents were 
most likely to procure celebrity ; that he to whom the fastidious distinc- 
tions of society were always odious, should have listened with compla 
cence to the voice of French philosophy, which denounced them as usur- 
pations on the rights of man, was precisely the thing to be expected. Yet 
we cannot but think, that if his superiors in the Excise department had 
tried the experiment of soothing rather than irritating his feelings, they 
might have spared themselves the disgrace of rendering desperate the pos- 
sessor of such uncommon talents. For it is hat too certain^ that from the 
moment his hopes of promotion were utterly blasted, his tendency to dis- 
sipation hurried him precipitately into those excesses which shortened his 
life. We doubt not, that in that awful period of national discord, he had 
done and said enough to deter, in ordinary cases, the servants of govern- 
ment from countenancing an avowed partizan of faction. But this partizan 
was Burns ! Surely the experiment of lenity might have been tried, and 
perhaps successfully. The conduct of Mr. Graham of Fintray, our poet's 
only shield against actual dismission and consequent ruin, reflects the high- 
est credit on that gentleman." 

In the general strain of sentiment in this passage, who can refuse to 
concur ? but I am bound to say, that after a careful examination of all the 
documents, printed and MS., to which I have had access. 1 have great 
doubts as to some of the principal facts assumed in this eloquent state- 
ment. I have before me, for example, a letter of Mr. Findlater, formerly 
Collector at Glasgow, who was, at the period in question, Burns's imme- 
diate superior in the Dumfries district, in which that very respectable per- 
son distinctly says : — " I may venture to assert, that when Burns was ac- 
cused of a leaning to democracy, and an inquiry into his conduct took 
place, he was subjected, in consequence thereof, to no more than perhaps 
a verbal or private caution to be more circumspect in future. Neither do 
I believe his promotion was thereby affected, as has been stated. That, 
had he lived, would, 1 have every reason to think, have gone on in the 
usual routine. His good and steady friend Mr. Graham would have attended 
to this. What cause, therefore, was there for depression of spirits on thi 
account - or how should he have been hurried thereby to a premature 
grave ? / never saw his spirit fail till he was borne down by the pressure 
of disease and bodily weakness ; and even then it would occasionally revive, 
and like an expiring lamp, emit bright flashes to the last." 

When the war had fairly broken out, a battalion of volunteers was form- 
ed in Dumfries, and Burns was an original member of the corps. It is 
very true that his accession was objected to by some of his neighbours 
but these were over- ruled by the gentlemen who took the lead in the busi- 
cess, and the poet soon became, as might have been expected, the great 



xrviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

est possible favourite with liis brothers in arms. His commanding officer 
Colonel De Peyster, attests his zealous discharge of his duties as a mem 
ber of the corps ; and their attachment to him was on the increase to the 
last. He was their laureate, and in that capacity did more good service to 
the government of the country, at a crisis of the darkest alarm and dan- 
ger, than perhaps any one person of his rank and station, with the ex- 
ception of Dibdin, had the power or the inclination to render. " Burns," 
says Allan Cunningham, " was a zealous lover of his country, and has 

stamped his patriotic feelings in many a lasting verse Uis poor ana 

honest Sodger laid hold at once on the public feeling, and it was every- 
where sung with an enthusiasm which only began to abate when Campbell's 
Exile of Erin and Wounded Hussar were published. Dumfries, which 
sent so many of her sons to the wars, rung with it from port to port ; and 
the poet, wherever he went, heard it echoing from house and hall. I wish 
th!;5 exquisite and useful song, with Scots wha hue wi Wallace bled, — the 
Soi/g of Deaths and Does haughty Gaul Invasion Threat, — all lyrics which 
enforce a love of country, and a martial enthusiasm into men's breasts, had 
obtained some reward for the poet. His perishable conversation was re- 
membered by the rich to his prejudice — his imperishable lyrics were re- 
warded only by the admiration and tears of his fellow peasants." 

Lastly, whatever the rebuke of the Excise Board amounted to — (Mr. 
James Gray, at that time schoolmaster in Dumfries, and seeing much of 
Burns both as the teacher of his children, and as a personal friend and as- 
sociate of literary taste and talent, is the only person who gives any thing 
like an exact statement : and according to him, Burns was admonished 
" that it was his business to act, not to think") — in whatever language the 
censure was clothed, the Excise Board did nothing from which Burns had 
any cause to suppose that his hopes of ultimate promotion were extinguish- 
ed. Nay, if he had taken up such a notion, rightly or erroneously, Mr. 
Eindlater, who had him constantly under his eye, and who enjoyed all his 
confidence, and who enjoyed then, as he still enjoys, the utmost confidence 
of the Board, must have known the fact to be so. Such, I cannot help 
thinking, is the fair view of the case : at all events, we know that Burns, 
the year before he died, was permitted to act as a Supervisor ; a thing not 
likely to have occurred had there been any resolution against promoting 
him in his proper order to a permanent situation of that superior rank. 

On *,'ie whole, then, I am of opinion that the Excise Board have been 
dealt with harshly, when men of eminence have talked of their conduct to 
Burns as affixing disgrace to them. It appears that Burns, being guilty 
unquestionably of great indiscretion and indecorum both of word and deed, 
was admonished in a private manner, that at such a period of national dis- 
traction, it behoved a public officer, gifted with talents and necessarily with 
influence like his, very carefully to abstain from conduct which, now that 
passions have had time to cool, no sane man will say became his situation 
that Burns's subsequent conduct effaced the unfavourable impression creat- 
ed in the minds of his superiors ; and that he had begun to taste the fruits 
of their recovered approbation and confidence, ere his career was closed by 
illness and death. 1 hese Commissioners of Excise were themselves sub- 
ordinate officers of the government, and strictly responsible for those un- 
der them. That they did try the experiment of lenity to a certain extent, 
appears tu be made out ; tiiat they could have been justified in trying it to a 
farther extent, is at the least doubtful. But with regard to the government 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. xcix 

of the country itself, I must say I think it is much more difficult to defend 
them. Mr. Pitt's ministry gave Dibdin a pension of £2{)0 a-year for writ- 
ing his Sea Songs ; and one cannot help remembering, that when Burns did 
begin to excite the ardour and patriotism of his countrymen by such songs: 
as Mr. Cunningham has been alluding to, there were persons who had 
every opportunity of representing to the Premier the claims of a greater 
than Dibdin. Lenity, indulgence, to whatever length carried in such 
quarters as these., would have been at once safe and graceful. What the 
minor politicians of the day thought of Burns's poetry I know not ; but 
Mr. Pitt himself appreciated it as highly as any man. " 1 can think oi 
no verse," said the great Minister, when Burns was no more — " I can think 
of no verse since Shakspeare's, that has so much the appearance of com- 
ing sweetly from nature." * 

Had Burns put forth some newspaper squibs upon Lepaux or Carnot, or 
a smart pamphlet " On the State of the Country," he might have been 
more attended to in his hfetime. It is common to say, " what is every- 
body's business is nobody's business ;" but one may be pardoned for think- 
ing that in such cases as this, that which the general voice of the country 
does admit to be everybody's business, comes in fact to be the business of 
those whom the nation intrusts with national concerns. 

To return to Sir Walter Scott's reviewal — it seems that he has some- 
what overstated the political indiscretions of which Burns was actually 
guilty. Let us hear the counter-statement of Mr. Gray, f who, as has al- 
ready been mentioned, enjoyed Burns's intimacy and confidence during his 
residence in Dumfries. — No one who ever knew anything of that excellent 
man, will for a moment suspect him of giving any other than what he be- 
lieves to be true. 

" Burns (says he) was enthusiastically fond of liberty, and a lover of the 
popular part of our constitution ; but he saw and admired the just and de- 
licate proportions of the political fabric, and nothing could be farther from 
his aim than to level with the dust the venerable pile reared by the labours 
and the wisdom of ages. That provision of the constitution, however, by 
which it is made to contain a self correcting principle, obtained no incon- 
siderable share of his admiration ; he was, therefore, a zealous advocate of 
constitutional reform. The necessity of this he often supported in conver- 
sation with all the energy of an irresistible eloquence ; but there is no evi- 
dence that he ever went farther. He was a member of no political club. 
At the time when, in certain societies, the mad cry of revolution was rais- 
ed from one end of the kingdom to the other, his voice was never heard in 
their debates, nor did he ever support their opinions in writing, or corre- 
spond with them in any form whatever. Though limited to an income 
which any other man would have considered poverty, he refused i .50 a- 
year offered to him for a weekly article, by the proprietors of an opposition 
paper ; and two reasons, equally honourable to him, induced him to reject 
this proposal. His independent spirit spurned indignantly the idea of be- 

* I am assured that I\Ir. Pitt used these words at the table of the late Lord Liverpool, 
soon after Burns's death. How that event might come to be a natural topic of conversation 
at that table, will be seen in the sequel. 

f JMr. Gray removed from the school of Dumfries to the High School of Edinburgh, in 
Which eminent seminary he for many years laboured with distinguished success. Hetlienbe- 
came Professor of Latin in the Institution at Belfast ; he afterwards entered into holy orders, 
and died a few years since in the East Indies, as officiating chaol^in to the Company in the 
presidency of Madras. 



J LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

coming the hireling of a party ; and whatever may Lave been his opinion 
of the men and measm*es that then prevailed, he did not thmk it right to 
fetter the operations of that government by which he was employed." 

The satement about the newspaper, refers to Mr. Perry of the Morning 
Chronicle, who, at the suggestion of Mr. Miller of Dalswinton, made the 
proposal referred to, and received for answer a letter which may be seen 
in the General Correspondence of our poet, and the tenor of which is in 
accordance with what Mr. Gray has said. Mr. Perry afterwards pressed 
Burns to settle in London as a regular writer for his paper, and the poet 
declined to do so, alleging that, however small, his Excise appointment 
was a certainty, which, in justice to his family, he could not think of aban 
doning. * 

Burns, after the Excise inquiry, took care, no doubt, to avoid similar 
scrapes ; but he had no reluctance to meddle largely and zealously in the 
squabbles of county politics and contested elections ; and thus, by merely 
espousing, on all occasions, the cause of the Whig candidates, kept up very 
effectually the spleen which the Tories had originally conceived on tolera- 
bly legitimate grounds. One of the most celebrated of these effusions was 
written on a desperately contested election for the Dumfries district of 
boroughs, between Sir James Johnstone of Westerhall, and Mr. Miller the 
younger of Dalswinton ; Burns, of course, maintaining the cause of his pa- 
tron's family. There is much humour in it : — 

THE FIVE CARLINES. 

L There were five carlines in the south, they fell upon a scheme, 
To send a lad to Lunnun town to bring them tidings hame, 
Nor only bring them tidings hame, but do their errands there, 
And aiblins gowd and honour baith might be that laddie's share. 

2. There was IMaggy by the banks o' Nith, -f a dame w' pride eneu^, 
And Marjor) o' the Monylochs, J a carline auld and teugh ; 

And blinkin Bess o' Annandale, § that dwelt near Solway-side, 
And whisky Jean that took her gill in Galloway sae wide ; || 
And black Joan frae Crichton Peel, 51 o' gipsy kith and kin, — 
Five wighter carlines war na foun' the soutn countrie within. 

3. To send a lad to Lunnun town, they met upon a day. 

And mony a knight and mony a laird their errand fain wad gae, 
But nae ane could their fancy please ; O ne'er a ane but tway. 

4. The first he was a belted knight, ** bred o' a border clan. 
And he wad gae to Lunnun town, might nae man him withstan*. 
And he wad do theii errands weel, and meikle he wad say, 
And ilka ane at Lunnun court would bid to him gude day. 

ft. The next came in a sodger youth, -f-f- and spak wi' modest grace. 
And he wad gae to Lunnun town, if sae their pleasure was; 
He wadna hecht them courtly gifts, nor meikle speech pretend. 
But he wad hecht an honest heart, wad ne'er desert a friend. 

6. Now, wham to choose and wham refuse, at strife thir carlines fell, 
For some had gentle folks to please, and some wad please themsel-. 

7. Then out spak mim-mou'd Meg o' Nith, and she spak up wi' pride, 
And she wad send the sodger youth, whatever might betide ; 

For the auld guidman o' liunnun J+ court she didna care a pin ; 
But she wad send the sodger youth to greet his eldest son. §§ 

• This is stated on the au'hority of 3Iajor IMiUer. 

•f- Dumfries. !*: liachmaben. § Annan. || Kirkcudbright 

% Sanquhar. ** Sir J. Johnstone. f-f- Major Miller. 

tt (ieorge III. ti§ The Prince of Wales. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cl 

8. Then up sprang Bess o' Annandale, and a deadly aith she's taen. 
That she wad vote the border knight, though she should vote her lane ; 
For far-afF fowls hae feathers fair, and fools o' change are fain ; 

But 1 hae tried the border knight, and I'll try him yet again. 

9. Says black Joan frae Crichton Peel, a carline stoor and grim, 

The auld guidman, and the young guidman, for me may sink or swim ; 
For fools will freat o' right or wrang, while knaves laugh them to scorn ; 
But the sodger's friends hae blawn the best, so he shall bear the horn. 

10. Then whisky Jean spak ower her drink, Ye weel ken, kimmers a% 
The auld guidman o' Lunnun court, he's back's been at the wa' ; 
And mony a friend that kiss't his cup, is now a fremit wight. 

But it's ne'er be said o' whisky Jean — I'll send the border knight. 

11. Then slow raise Marjory o' the Lochs, and wrinkled was her brow, 
Her ancient weed was russet gray, her auld Scots bluid was true ; 
There's some great folks set light by me, — I set as light by them ; 

But I will sen' to liunnun toun wham 1 like best at name. ' 

12. Sae how this weighty plea may end, nae mortal wight can tell, 
God grant the King and ilka man may look weel to himsell. 

The above is far the best humoured of these productions. The election 
to M^hich it refers was carried in Major Miller's favour, but after a severe 
contest, and at a very heavy expense. 

These political conflicts were not to be mingled in with impunity by the 
chosen laureate, wit, and orator of the district. He himself, in an unpub- 
lished piece, speaks of the terror excited by 



" Burns's venom, when 

He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen, 

A nrl pours his vengeance in the burning line ;" 



And 



and represents his victims, on one of these electioneering occasions, 
leading a choral shout that 



He for his heresies in church and state. 



Might richly merit Muir's and Palmer's fate." 

But what rendered him more and more the object of aversion to one set of 
people, was sure to connect him more strongly with the passions, and, un- 
fortunately for himself and for us, with the pleasures of the other ; and we 
have, among many confessions to the same purpose, the following, which I 
quote as the shortest, in one of the poet's letters from Dumfries to Mrs. 
Dunlop. " I am better, but not quite free of my complaint (he refers to 
the palpitation of heart. ) You must not think, as you seem to insinuate, 
that in my way of life I want exercise. Of that I have enough ; but occa- 
sional hard drinking is the devil to me." He knew well what he was doing 
whenever he mingled in such debaucheries : he had, long ere this, describ- 
ed himself as parting " with a slice of his constitution" every time he was 
guilty of such excess. 

This brings us back to a subject on which it can give no one pleasure to 
expatiate. 

" Dr. Currie," says Gilbert Burns, " knowing the events of the latter 
years of my brother's life, only from the reports which had been propagat- 
ed, and thinking it necessary, lest the candour of his work should be called 
in question, to state the substance of these reports, has given a very exag- 
gerated view of the failings of my brother's life at that period, which is cer- 
tainly to be regretted." — " 1 love Dr. Currie," says the Rev. James Gray, 
already more than once referred to, but 1 love the memory of Burns more. 



en LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

and no consideration shall deter me from a bold declaration of the truth 
The poet of The Cottar s Saturday Night, who felt all the charms of the 
humble piety and virtue which he sung, is charged, (in Dr Currie's Nar- 
rative), with vices which would reduce him to a level with the most degrad- 
ed of his species. As 1 knew him durmg that perio^l of his life emphati- 
cally called his evil days, I am enabled to speak from my own observation. 
It is not my intention to extenuate his errors, because they were combined 
with genius ; on that account, they were only the more dangerous, be- 
cause the more seductive, and deserve the more severe reprehension ; but 
I shall likewise claim that nothing may be said in malice even against him. 
It came under my own view professionally, that he superin- 
tended the education of his children with a degree of care that I have ne- 
ver seen surpassed by any parent in any rank of life whatever. In the bo- 
som of his family he spent many a delightful hour in directing the studies 
of his eldest son, a boy of uncommon talents. I have frequently found him 
explaining to this youth, then not more than nine years of age, the Eng- 
lish poets, from Shakspeare to Gray, or storing his mind with examples of 
heroic virtue, as they live in the pages of our most celebrated English his- 
torians I would ask any person of common candour, if employments like 
these are consistent with habitual drunhenness f 

'' It is not denied that he sometimes mingled with society unworthy of him. 
He was of a social and convivial nature. He was courted by all classes of 
men for the fascinating powers of his conversation, but over his social scene 
uncontrolled passion never presided. Over the social bawl, his wit flashed 
for hours together, penetrating whatever it struck, like the fire from hea- 
ven ; but even in the hour of thoughtless gaity and merriment, I never 
knew it tainted by indecency. It was playful or caustic by turns, follow- 
ing an allusion through all its windings ; astonishing by its rapidity, or 
amusing by its wild originality, and grotesque, yet natural combinations, 
but never, within my observation, disgusting by its grossness. In his 
morning hours, I never saw him like one suffering from the effects of last 
night's intemperance. He appeared then clear and unclouded. He was 
the eloquent advocate of humanity, justice, and political freedom. From 
his paintings, virtue appeared more lovely, and piety assumed a more ce- 
lestial mien. While his keen eye was pregnant with fancy and feeling, 
and his voice attuned to the very passion which he wished to communicate, 
It would hardly have been possible to conceive any being more interesting 
and delightful. I may likewise add, that to the very end of his life, reading 
was his favourite amusement. I have never known any man so intimately 
acquainted with the elegant English authors. He seemed to have the 
poets by heart. The prose authors he could quote either in their own 
words, or clothe their ideas in language more beautiful than their own. 
Nor was there ever any decay in any of the powers of his mind. To the 
last day of his life, his judgment, his memory, his imagination, were fresh 
and vigorous, as when he composed The Cottar s Saturday Night. The 
truth is, that Burns was seldom intoxicated. The drunkard soon becomes 
besotted, and is shunned even by the convivial. Had he been so, he could 
not long have continued the idol of every party. It will be freely confes- 
sed, that the hour of enjoyment was often prolonged beyond the limit 
marked by prudence ; but what man will venture to affirm, that in situa- 
tions where he was conscious of giving so much pleasure, he could at al/ 
imes have listened to her voice } 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



CllI 



" The men with whom he generally associated, were noi of the lowest 
arder. He numbered among his intimate friends, many of the most respec- 
table inhabitants of Dumfries and the vicinity. Several of those were at- 
tached to him by ties that the hand of calumn}^, busy as it was. could ne- 
ver snap asunder. They admired the poet for his genius, and loved the 
man for the candour, generosity, and kindness of his nature. His early 
friends clung to him through good and bad report, with a zeal and fidelity 
that prove their disbelief of the malicious stories circulated to his disad- 
vantage. Among them were some of the most distinguished characters in 
this country, and not a few females, eminent for delicacy, taste, and genius. 
They were proud of his friendship, and cherished him to the last moment 
of his existence. He was endeared to them even by his misfortunes, and 
they still retain for his memory that affectionate veneration which virtue 
alone inspires." 

Fart of Mr. Gray's letter is omitted, only because it touches on subjects, 
as to v/hich Mr. Findlater's statement must be considered as of not merely 
sufficient, but the very highest authority. 

" My connexion with Robert Burns," says that most respectable man, 
" commenced immediately after his admission into the Excise, and con- 
tinued to the hour of his death. * In all that time, the superintendence of 
his behaviour, as an officer of the revenue, was a branch of my especial pro- 
vince, and it may be supposed that I would not be an inattentive observer 
of the general conduct of a man and a poet, so celebrated by his country- 
men. In the former capacity, he was exemplary in his attention ; and 
was even jealous of the least imputation on his vigilance : as a proof of 
which, it may not be foreign to the subject to quote a part of a letter from 
him to myself, in a case of only seeming inattention. — ' I know, Sir, and re- 
gret deeply, that this business glances with a malign aspect on my charac- 
ter as an officer ; but, as I am really innocent in the affair, and as the gentle- 
man is known to be an illicit dealer, and particularly as this is the single in- 
stance of the least shadow of carelessnes or impropriety in my conduct as 
an officer, I shall be peculiarly unfortunate if my character shall fall a sa- 
crifice to the dark manoeuvres of a smuggler.' — This of itself affords more 
than a presumption of his attention to business, as it cannot be supposed he 
would have written in such a style to me, but from the impulse of a consci- 
ous rectitude in this department of his duty. Indeed, it v/as not till near 
the latter end of his days that there was any falling off in this respect ; and 
this was amply accounted for in the pressure of disease and accumulating 
infirmities. 1 will further avow, that I never saw him, which was very fre- 
quently while he lived at Elliesland, and still more so, almost every day, 
after he removed to Dumfries, but in hours of business he wa^ quite him- 
self, and capable of discharging the daties of his office; nor was he ever 
known to drink by himself, or seen to indulge in the use of liquor in a fore- 
noon. ... 1 have seen Burns in all his various phases, in his convivial 
moments, in his sober moods, and in the bosom of his family ; indeed, I 
believe I saw more of him than any other individual had occasion to see, 
after he became an Excise officer, and 1 never beheld any thing like the 
gross enormities with which he is now charged: That when set down in 
an evening Avith a few friends Avliom he liked, he was apt to prolong th^ 
social hour beyond the bounds which prudence would dictate, is unqucs 

* INIr. Findlater watched by i5urns the right before he died. 



jiv LIFE OF nOBERT BURXS. 

tionable ; but in his family, I will venture to say, he was never seen other 
wise than attentive and affectionate to a high degree." 

These statements are entitled to every consideration : they come from 
men altogether incapable, for any purpose, of wilfully stating that which 
they know to be untrue. 

To whatever Burns's excesses amounted, >they were, it is obvious, and 
that frequently, the subject of rebuke and remonstrance even from his own 
dearest friends. That such reprimands should have been received at times 
with a strange mixture of remorse and indignation, none that have consi- 
dered the nervous susceptibility and haughtiness of Burns's character can 
hear with surprise. But this was only when the good advice was oral. No 
one knew better than he how to answer the written homilies of such per- 
sons as were most likely to take the freedom of admonishing him on points 
of such delicacy ; nor is there any thing in all his correspondence more 
amusing than his reply to a certain solemn lecture of William Nicoll. . . 
"■ O thou, wisest among the wise, meridian blaze of prudence, full moon 
of discretion, and chief of many counsellors ! how infinitely is thy puddle- 
headed, rattle-headed, wrong-headed, round-headed slave indebted to thy 
supereminent goodness, that from the luminous path of thy own right-lined 
rectitude thou lookest benignly down on an erring wretch, of whom the 
zig-zag wanderings defy all the powers of calculation, from the simple co- 
pulation of units, up to the hidden mysteries of fluxions ! iVlay one feeble 
rav of that light of wisdom which darts from thy sensorium, straight as the 
arrow of heaven, and bright as the meteor of inspiration, may it be my 
portion, so that I may be less unworthy of the face and favour of that fa- 
ther of proverbs and master of maxims, that antipod of folly, and magnet 
among the sages, the wise and witty Willy Nicoll ! Amen ! amen ! Yea, 
so be it ! 

" For me ! I am a beast, a reptile, and know nothing !" &c. &c. S:c. 

To how many that have moralized over the life and death of Burns, 
might not such a Tu quoque be addressed ! 

'1 he strongest argument in favour of those who denounce the statements 
of Heron, Currie, and their fellow biographers, concerning the habits of the 
poet, during the latter years of his career, as culpably and egregiously ex- 
aggerated, still remains to be considered. On the whole, Burns gave sa- 
tisfaction by his manner of executing the duties of his station in the reve- 
nue service ; he, moreover, as Mr. Gray tells us, (and upon this ground 
Mr. Gray could not possibly be mistaken), took a lively interest in the edu- 
cation of his children, and spent more hours in their private tuition than 
fathers who have more leisure than his excisemanship left him, are often 
in the custom of so bestowing. — " He was a kind and attentive father, and 
took great delight in spending his evenings in the cultivation of the minds 
of his children. Their education was the grand object of his life, and he 
did not, like most parents, think it sufficient to send them to public schoois ; 
he was their private instructor, and even at that early age, bestowed great 
pains in training their minds to habits of thought and reflection, and in 
keeping them pure from every form of vice. This he considered as a sa- 
cred duty, and never, to the period of his last illness, relaxed in his dili- 
gence. With his eldest son, a boy of not more than nine years of age, he 
had read many of the favourite poets, and some of the best historians in 
our language ; and what is more remarkable, gave him considerable aid in 
U:ie study of Latin. This boy afe ";nded the Grammar School of Dumfries 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. vy 

and soon attracted my notice by the st .*ength of his talent, and the ardour 
of his ambition. Before he had been a year at school, I thought it right 
to advance him a form, and he began to read Caesar, and gave me transla- 
tions of that author of such beauty as I confess surprised me. On inquiry, 
I found that his father made him turn over his dictionary, till he was able 
to translate to him the passage in such a way that he could gather the au- 
thor's meaning, and that it was to him he owed that polished and forcible 
English with which I was so greatly struck. I have mentioned this inci- 
dent merely to show what minute attention he paid to this important 
branch of parental duty." * Lastly, although to all men's regret he wrote, 
after his removal to Dumfriesshire, only one poetical piece of considerable 
length, {7\im. o' S/iaiifer), his epistolary correspondence, and his songs to 
Johnson's Museum, and to the collection of Mr. George Thomson, furnish 
undeniable proof that, in whatever ^Av of dissipation he unhappily indulg- 
ed, he never could possibly have sunk into any thing like that habitual 
grossness of manners and sottish degradation of mind, which the writers in 
.]uestion have not hesitated to hold up to the commiseration of mankind. 

Of his letters written at Elliesland and Dumfries, nearly three octavo 
volum.es have been already printed by Currie and Cromek ; and it would 
be easy to swell the collection to double this extent. Enough, however, 
has been published to enable every reader to judge for himself of the cha- 
racter of Burns's style of epistolary composition. The severest criticism 
bestowed on it has been, that it is too elaborate — that, however natural 
the feelings, the expression is frequently more studied and artificial than 
belongs to that species of composition. Be this remark altogether just in 
point of taste, or otherwise, the fact on which it is founded, furnishes 
strength to our present position. The poet produced in these years a great 
body of elaborate prose -writing. 

We have already had occasion to notice some of his contributions to 
Jolmson's Museum. He continued to the last month of his life to take a 
lively interest in that work ; and besides writing for it some dozens of ex- 
cellent original songs, his diligence in collecting ancient pieces hitherto 
unpublished, and his taste and skill in eking out fragments, were largely, 
and most happily exerted, all along, for its benefit. Mr. Cromek saw 
among Johnson's papers, no fewer than 184 of the pieces which enter into 
r.he collection, in 13urns's handwriting. 

His connexion with the more important work of Mr. Thomson commenc- 
ed in September 1792 ; and Mr. Gray justly says, that whoever considers 
his correspondence with the editor, and the collection itself, must be satis- 
fied, that from that time till the commencement of his last illness, not 
many days ever passed over his head without the production of some new 
stanzas for its pages. Besides old materials, for the most part embellished 
with lines, if not verses of his own, and a whole body of hints, suggestions, 
and criticisms. Burns gave Mr. Thomson about sixty original songs. The 
songs in this collection are by many eminent critics placed decidedly at 
the head of all our poet's performances : it is by none disputed that very 
many of them are worthy of his most felicitous inspiration. He bestowed 
much more care on them than on his contributions to the Museum ; and 
the taste and feeling of the editor secured the work against any intrusions 
of that ovei-warm. element which was too apt to mingle in his amatory ef- 

* Letter from the Rev. James (ilray to Mr. Gilbert Burns. See his Edition, vol. I A^ 
pendix. No. v. ^^ 



s:vi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

fusions. Burns knew that he was now engaged on a work destined for the 
eye and ear of refinement ; he laboured throughout, under the salutary feel- 
mg, " vh'guiibus puerisque canto ;" and the consequences have been hap- 
py indeed for his own fame — for the literary taste, and the national music, 
of Scotland ; and, what is of far higher importance, the moral and national 
feelings of his countrymen. 

In almost all these productions — certainly in all that deserve to be placed 
in the first rank of his compositions — Burns made use of his native dialect. 
He did so, too, in opposition to the advice of almost all the lettered cor- 
respondents he had — more especially of Dr. Moore, who, in his own novels 
never ventured on more than a few casual specimens of Scottish colloquy 
— following therein the example of his illustrious predecessor Smollett ; 
and not foreseeing that a triumph over English prejudice, which Smollett 
might have achieved, had he pleased to make the effort, was destined to be 
the prize of Burns's perseverance in obeying the dictates of native taste 
and judgment. Our poet received such suggestions, for the most part, in 
silence — not choosing to argue with others on a matter which concerned 
only his own feelings ; but in writing to Mr. Thomson, he had no occasion 
either to conceal or disguise his sentiments. " These English songs," 
says he, " gravel me to death. I have not that command of the language 
that I have of my native tongue ;"* and again, " so much for namby- 
pamby. I may, after all, try my hand at it in Scots verse. There 1 am al- 
ways most at home." -f — He, besides, would have considered it as a sort of 
national crime to do any thing that must tend to divorce the music of his 
native land from her peculiar idiom. The " genius loci" was never wor- 
shipped more fervently than by Burns. " I am such an enthusiast," says 
he, " that in the course of my several peregrinations through Scotland, I 
made a pilgrimage to the individual spot from which every song took its 
rise, Lochuber and the Braes ofBalleiiden excepted. So far as the locality, 
either from the title of the air or the tenor of the song, could be ascer- 
tained, I have paid my devotions at the particular shrine of every Scottish 
Muse." With such feelings, he was not likely to touch with an irreverent 
hand the old fabric of our national song, or to meditate a lyrical revolution 
for the pleasure of strangers. " There is," says he, :|: " a naivete, a pas- 
toral simplicity in a slight intermixture of Scots words and phraseology, 
which is more in unison (at least to my taste, and I will add, to every ge- 
nuine Caledonian taste), with the simple pathos or rustic sprightliness of 
our native music, than any English verses whatever. One hint more iet 
me give you : — Whatever Mr. Pleyel does, let him not alter one iofa of 
the original airs ; 1 mean in the song department ; but let our Scottish na- 
tional music preserve its native features. '1 hey are, 1 own, frequently 
wild and irreducible to the more modern rules ; but on that very eccentri- 
city, perhaps, depends a great part of their effect." § 

Of the delight with which Burns laboured for Mr. Thomson's Collection, 
his letters contain some lively descriptions. '• You cannot imagine," says 
he, 7th April 1793, " how much this business has added to my enjoy- 
ments. What with m}^ early attachment to ballads, your book and ballad- 

• Correspondence with Mr. Thomson, p. 111. f Ibid. p. 00. % Ibid. p. 38. 

^ It may amuse the reader to hear, that iji spite of all Burns's success in the use of his native 
dialect, even an eminently spirited bookseller to whom the manuscript of Waverley was sub. 
mitted, hesitated for some time about publishing it, on account of the Scpi^s dialogue interwo- 
veo in the novel. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cvii 

making ate now as completely my hobbyhorse as ever fcrnficatjon was 
Uncle Toby's ; so I'll e'en canter it away till I come to the limit of my 
race. (God grant I may take the right side of the winning-post), and then, 
cheerfully looking back on the honest folks with whom 1 have been hap- 
py, I shall say or sing, ' Sae merry as we a' hae been,' and raising ray last 
looks to the whole human race, the last words of the voice of Coila shall 
be ' Good night, and joy be wi' you, a'.' " * 

" Until I am complete master of a tune in my own singing, such as it is, 
I can never," says Burns, " compose for it. My wsy is this : I consider 
the poetic sentin.ent correspondent to my idea of the musical expression, 
— then choose my theme, — compose one stanza. When that is composed, 
which is generally the most difficult part of the business, I walk out, sit 
down now and then, — look out for objects in nature round me that are in 
unison or harmony with the cogitations of my fancy, and workings of my 
bosom,- — humming every now and then the air, with the verses I have fram- 
ed. When I feel my muse beginning to jade, I retire to the solitary hre- 
side of my study, and there commit my effusions to paper ; swinging at in- 
tervals on the hind legs of my elbow-chair, by way of calling forth my own 
critical strictures, as my pen goes. Seriously, this, at home, is almost in- 
variably my way. — What cursed egotism !" f 

In this correspondence with Mr. Thomson, and in Cromek's later pubh- 
cation, the reader will find a world of interesting details about the particu- 
lar circumstances under which these immortal songs were severally writ- 
ten. They are all, or almost all, in fact, part and parcel of the poet's per- 
sonal history. No man ever made his muse more completely the compa- 
nion of his own individual life. A new flood of light has just been poured 
on the same subject, in Mr. Allan Cunningham's " Collection of Scottish 
Songs ;" unless, therefore, I were to transcribe volumes, and all popular 
volumes too, it is impossible to go into the details of this part of the poet's 
history. The reader must be contented with a kw general memoranda ; 

" Do you think that the sober gin-horse routine of existence could in- 
spire a man with life, and love, and joy, — could fire him with enthusiasm, 
or melt him with pathos equal to the genius of your book ? No, no. When- 
ever I want to be more than ordinary in song — to be in some degree equal 
to your divine airs — do you imagine I fast and pray for the celestial ema- 
nation ? Tout au contraire. I have a glorious recipe, the very one that for 
his own use was invented by the Divinity of healing and poetry, when erst 
he piped to the flocks of Admetus, — I put myself on a regimen of admir- 
ing a fine woman." ij: 

'* I can assure you I was never more in earnest. — Conjugal love is a pas- 
sion which I deeply feel, and highly venerate ; but, somehow, it does not 
make such a figure in poesy as that other species of the passion, 

" Where love is liberty, and nature law." 

Musically speaking, the first is an instrument, of which the gamut is scanty 
and confined, but the tones inexpressibly sweet ; while the last has powers 
equal to all the intellectual modulations of the human soul. Still 1 am a 
very poet in my enthusiasm of the passion. The welfare and happiness of 
the beloved object is the first and inviolate sentiment that pervades my 

* Correspondence with Mr. Thomson, p. 57- + Ibid. p. 119. 



cvii: LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

soal ; and — whatever pleasures I might wish for, or whatever raptures they 
might give me — yet, if they interfere with that first principle, it is having 
these pleasures at a dishonest price ; and justice forbids, and generosity 
disdains the purchase." * 

Of all Burns's love songs, the best, in his own opinion, was that which 
begins, 

" Yestreen I had a nint o' wine, 
A place where boay saw na'." 

Mr. Cunningham says, " if the poet thought so, I am sorry for it ;" while 
the Reverend Hamilton Paul fully concurs in the author's own estimate of 
the performance. 

There is in the same collection a love song, which unites the suffrages, 
and ever will do so, of all men. It has furnished Byron with a motto^ 
and Sco*^* has said that that motto is " worth a thousand romances." 

" Had we never loved sae kindly, 
Had we never loved sae blindly, 
Never met — or never partied, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted." 

There are traditions which connect Burns with the heroines of these be- 
witching songs. 

I envy no one the task of inquiring minutely in how far these traditions 
rest on the foundation of truth. They refer at worst to occasional errors. 
" Many insinuations," says Mr. Gray, " have been made against the poet's 
character as a husband, but without the slightest proof; and I might pass 
from the charge with that neglect which it merits ; but I am happy to say 
that I have in exculpation the direct evidence of Mrs. Burns herself, who, 
among many amiable and respectable qualities, ranks a veneration for the 
memory of her departed husband, whom she never names but in terms of 
the profoundest respect and the deepest regret, to lament his misfortunes, 
or to extol his kindnesses to herself, not as the momentary overflowings of 
the heart in a season of penitence for offences generously forgiven, but an 
habitual tenderness, which ended only with his life. I place this evidence, 
which I am proud to bring forward on her own authority, against a thou- 
sand anonymous calumnies." f 

Among the effusions, not amatory, which our poet contributed to Mr. 
Thomsons Collection, the famous song of Bannockburn holds the first place. 
We have already seen in how lively a manner Burns's feelings were kindled 
when he visited that glorious field. According to tradition, the tune play- 
ed when Bruce led his troops to the charge, was " Hey tuttie tattie ;" 
and it was humming this old air as he rode by himself through Glenken, a 
wild district in Galloway, during a terrific storm of wind and rain, that the 
poet composed his immortal lyric in its first and noblest form. This is one 
more instance of his delight in the sterner aspects of nature. 

•' Come, winter, with thine angry howl, 
And raging bead ihe naked tiee — " 

'< There is hardly," says he in one of his letters, " there is scarcely any 
earthly object gives me more — I do not know if I should call it pleasure 

* Correspondence with IMr. Thomson, p. 191. 

■^ Letter in Gilbert Eurns's Edition, vol. I. Appendix, p. 437. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cia 

>— but something which exalts me, something which enraptures me — iban 
to walk in the sheltered side of a wood in a cloudy winter day, and hear the 
stormy wind howling among the trees, and raving over the plain. It is my 
best season for devotion : my mind is wrapt up in a kind of enthusiasm t».' 
Him^ who, to use the pompous language of the Hebrew Bard, ' walks on 
the wings of the wind.' " — To the last, his best poetry was produced amidisf 
scenes of solemn desolatioB. 



CHAPTER IX. 

CoA*]fcNTS The poet's mortal period approaches — His peculiar temperament — Symptoms of 

premature old age — These not diminished hy narrow circumstances, by chagrin from neyiecc, 
and hy the death of a Daughter — The poet misses public patronage : and even the fair fruits 
of his 010 I genius — the appvpriatioti of ivhich is debated for the casuists who yielded to him 
merely the shell — His magnanimity when death is at hand; his interviews, conversations, 
and addresses as a dying wan — Dies, 2\st July 1796 — Public funeral, at which many at- 
tend, and amongst the rest the future Premier of England, who had steadily refused to ac- 
knowledge the poet, living — His family munificently provided for by the public — Analysis oj 
character — His integrity, religious state, and genius — Strictures upon him and his writings 
\y Scott, Campbell, Byron, and others. 



" I dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe, 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear.*' 

We are drawing near the close of this great poet's mortal career ; and 1 
would fain hope the details of the last chapter may have prepared the hu- 
mane reader to contemplate it with sentiments of sorrow, pure and unde- 
based with any considerable intermixture of less genial feelings. 

For some years before Burns was lost to his country, it is sufficiently 
plain that he had been, on political grounds, an object of suspicion and dis- 
trust to a large portion of the population that had most opportunity of ob- 
serving him. The mean subalterns of party had, it is very easy to suppose, 
delighted in decrying him on pretexts, good, bad, and indifferent, equally — 
to their superiors ; and hence, who will not willingly believe it ? the tem- 
porary and local prevalence of those extravagantly injurious reports, the 
essence of which Dr. Currie, no doubt, thought it his duty, as a biographer, 
to extract and circulate. 

A gentleman of that county, whose name I have already more than once 
had occasion to refer to, has often told me, that he was seldom more grie- 
ved, than when riding into Dumfries one fine summer's evening, about this 
time, to attend a county ball, he saw Burns walking alone, on the shady 
side of the principal street of the town, while the opposite side was gay 
with successive groups of gentlemen and ladies, all drawn together for the 
festivities of the night, not one of whom appeared wiUing to recognize him. 
The horseman dismounted and joined Burns, who, on his proposing to him 
to cross the street, said, " Nay, nay, my young friend, — that's all over 
now ;" and quoted, after a pause, some verses of Lady Grizzel Baillie's 
pathetic ballad, — 

" His bonnet stood ance fu' fair on his brow, 
Hisauld ane look'd better than mony ane's new; 
But now he lets't wear ony way it will hing. 
And casts himsell dowie upon the corn-bini:. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxi 

' O were we young, as we ance hae been, 
We sud hae been galloping doun on yon green, 
And linking it ower the lilywhite lea, — 
And xoerena viy heart light I wad die.''* 

tt was little in Burns's character to let his feelings an certain subjects, es- 
cape in this fashion. He, immediately after citing these verses, assumed 
the sprightliness of his most pleasing manner ; and taking his young friend 
home with him, entertained him very agreeably until the hour of the ball 
arrived, with a bowl of his usual potation, and Bonnie Jean's singing of 
some verses which he had recently composed. 

The untimely death of one who, had he lived to any thing like the usual 
term of human existence, might have done so much to increase his fame 
as a poet, and to purify and dignify his character as a man, was, it is too 
probable, hastened by his own intemperances and imprudences : but it 
seems to be extremely improbable, that, even if his manhood had been a 
course of saintlike virtue in all respects, the irritable and nervous bodily 
constitution which he inherited from his father, shaken as it was by the 
toils and miseries of his ill-starred youth, could have sustained, to any 
thing like the psalmist's " allotted span," the exhausting excitements of an 
intensely poetical temperament. Since the first pages of this narrative were 
sent to the press, I have heard from an old acquaintance of the bard, who 
often shared his bed with him at Mossgiel, that even at that early period, 
when intemperance assuredly had had nothing to do with the matter, those 
ominous symptoms of radical disorder in the digestive system, the " palpi- 
tation and suffocation" of which Gilbert speaks, were so regularly his noc- 
turnal visitants, that it was his custom to have a great tub of cold water 
by his bedside, into which he usually plunged more than once in the course 
of the night, thereby procuring Instant, though but shortlived relief. On 
a frame thus originally constructed, and thus early tried with most se- 
vere afflictions, external and internal, what must not have been, under any 
subsequent course of circumstances, the effect of that exquisite sensibi- 
lity of mind, but for which the world would never have heard any thing 
either of the sins, or the sorrows, or the poetry of Burns ! 

" The fates and characters of the rhyming tribe," * (thus writes the 
poet himself), *' often employ my thoughts when I am disposed to be me- 
lancholy. There Is not, among all the martyrologies that ever were pen- 
ned, so rueful a narrative as the lives of the poets. — In the comparative 
view of wretches, the criterion is not what they are doomed to suffer, but 
how they are formed to bear. Take a being of our kind, give him a stronger 
imagination and a more delicate sensibility, which between them will ever 
engender a more ungovernable set of passions, than are the usual lot of 
man ; implant in him an Irresistible Impulse to some idle vagary, such as, 
arranging wild flowers in fantastical nosegays, tracing the grasshopper to 
his haunt by his chirping song, watching the frisks of the little minnows 
in the sunny pool, or hunting after the intrigues of butterflies — in short, 
send him adrift after some pursuit which shall eternally mislead him from 
the paths of lucre, and yet curse him with a keener relish than any man 
living for the pleasures that lucre can purchase ; lastly, fill up the measure 
of his woes by bestowing on him a spurning sense of his own dignity, and 
you have created a wight nearly as miserable as a poet." 

* Letter to i^liss Chalmers in 1793. 



cxii LIFE OF IlOBERr BURNS. 

In these few short sentences, as it appears co me, Burhs has traced his own 
character far better than any one else has done it since. — But with this lot 
what pleasures were not mingled ? — " To you, Madam," he proceeds, " I 
need not recount the fairy pleasures the muse bestOA^s to counterbalance 
this catalogue of evils. Bewitching poetry is like bewitching woman ; she 
has in all ages been accused of misleading mankind from the counsels of 
wisdom and the paths of prudence, involving them in difficulties, baiting 
them with poverty, branding them with infamy, and plunging them in the 
whirling vortex of ruin ; yet, where is the man but must own that all our 
happiness on earth is not worthy the name-r-that even the holy hermit's 
solitary prospect of pardisiacal bliss is but the glitter of a northern sun, ris- 
ing over a frozen region, compared with the many pleasures, the nameless 
raptures, that we owe to the lovely Queen of the heart of man !" 

It is common to say of those who over-indulge themselves in material 
stimulants, that they live fust ; what wonder that the career of the poet's 
thick-coming fancies should, in the immense majority of cases, be rapid 
too? 

That Burns lived fa.st^ in both senses of the phrase, we have abundant 
evidence from himself; and that the more earthly motion was somewhat ac- 
celerated as it approached the close, we may believe, without finding it at all 
necessary to mingle anger with our sorrow. " Even in his earliest poems," 
as Mr. Wordsworth says, in a beautiful passage of his letter to Mr. Gray, 
*' through the veil of assumed habits and pretended qualities, enough of 
the real man appears to show, that he was conscious of sufficient cause to 
dread his own passions, and to bewail his errors ! We have rejected as false 
sometimes in the latter, and of necessity as false in the spirit, many of the 
testimonies that others have borne against him : — but, by his own hand — 
in words the import of which cannot be mistaken — it has been recorded 
that the order of his life but faintly corresponded with the clearness of his 
views It is probable that he would have proved a still greater poet if, by 
strength of reason, he could have controlled the propensities which his sen- 
sibility engendered ; but he would have been a poet of a different class : 
and certain it is, had that desirable restraint been early established, many 
peculiar beauties which enrich his verses could never have existed, and 
many accessary influences, which contribute greatly to their effect, would 
have been wanting. For instance, the momentous truth of the passage — 

" One point must still be greatly dark, 

The moving -wliy they do it : 
And just as lamely can ye mark, 

How far perhaps they rue it. 

Then gently scan your brother man, 

Still gentlier sister woman — 
Though they may gang a kennin' wrang : 

To step aside is huuian," 

could not possibly have been conveyed with such pathetic torce by any 
poet that ever lived, speaking in his own voice ; unless it w ere felt that, 
like Burns, he was a man who preached from the text of his own errors • 
and whose wisdom, beautiful as a flower that might have risen from oeed 
sown from above, was in fact a scion from the root of personal suffering." 

In how far the " thoughtless follies" of the poet did actually hasten his 
end, it is needless to conjecture. They had their share, unquestionably, 
along with otli^r influences which it would be inhuman to ciiaracterise ak 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxiii | 

mere follies — such, for example, as that general depression of spirits which \ 
haunted him from his youth, and, in all likelihood, sat more heavily or j 
such a being as Burns than a man of plain common sense might guess, — or \ 
even a casual expression of discouraging tendency from the persons on I 
whose good-will all hopes of substantial advancement in the scale of world- | 
ly promotion depended, — or that partial exclusion from the species of so- I 
ciety our poet had been accustomed to adorn and delight, which, from j 
however inadequate causes, certainly did occur during some of the latter ! 
years of his life. — All such sorrows as these must have acted with twofold | 
tyranny upon Burns ; harassing, in the first place, one of the most sensitive j 
minds that ever filled a human bosom, and, alas ! by consequence, tempting j 
to additional excesses. How he struggled against the tide of his misery, let | 
the following letter speak. — It was written February 25, iTO^, and addres- | 
sed to Mr. Alexander Cunningham, an eccentric being, but generous and 
faithful in his friendship to Burns, and, when Burns was no more, to his 
family. — " Canst thou minister," says the poet, " to a mind diseased ? 
Canst thou speak peace and rest to a soul tost on a sea of troubles, without 
one friendly star to guide her course, and dreading that the next surge may 
overwhelm her ? Canst thou give to a frame, tremblingly alive as the tor- 
tures of suspense, the stability and hardihood of the rock that braves the 
blast - If thou canst not do the least of these, why would'st thou disturb 
me in my miseries, with thy inquiries after me ? For these two months I 
have not been able to lift a pen. My constitution and frame were ab ori- 
gine, blasted with a deep incurable taint of hypochondria, which poisons my 
existence. Of late a number of domestic vexations, and some pecuniary 
share in the ruin of these »»*** times — losses which, though trifling, were 
yet what I could ill bear, have so irritated me, that my feelings at times 
could only be envied by a reprobate spirit listening to the sentence that 
dooms it to perdition. Are you deep in the language of consolation ? I 
have exhausted in reflection every topic of comfort. A heart at ease would 
have been charmed with my sentiments and reasonings ; but as to myself, I 
was like Judas Iscariot preaching the gospel ; he might melt and mould 
the hearts of those around him, but his own kept its native incorrigibility. 
Still there are two great pillars that bear us up, amid the wreck of misfor- 
tune and misery. The one is composed of the different modifications of a 
certain noble, stubborn something in man, known by the names of courage, 
fortitude, magnanimity. The other is made up of those feelings and sen- 
timents, which, however the sceptic may deny, or the enthusiast disfigure 
them, are yet, I am convinced, original and component parts of the human 
soul ; those se/zses of the mind, if I may be allowed the expression, which 
connect us with, and link us to those awful obscure realities — an all-power- 
ful and equally beneficent God — and a world to come, beyond death and 
the grave. The first gives the nerve of combat, while a ray of hope beams 
on the field ; — the last pours the balm of comfort into the wounds which 
time can never cure. 

" 1 do not remember, my dear Cunningham, that you and I ever talked 
on the subject of religion at all. I know some who laugh at it, as the trick 
of the crafty few, to lead the undiscerning many ; or at most as an uncer- 
tain obscurity, which mankind can never know any thing of, and with which 
tlsey are fools if they give themselves much to do. Nor would 1 quarrel 
with a man for his irreligion, any more than I would for his want of a mu- 
sical ear. I would regret that he was shut out from what, to me and to 



! i 



I cxiv LIFE OF liOBERT BURNS. 

I 



others, wot e such superlative sources of enjoyment. It is in this poir t ot view 

i i and for tliis reason, that I will deeply imbue the mind of every child oi 

j mine with religion. If my son should happen to be a man of feeling, sen- 

I timent, and taste, I shall thus add largely to his enjoyments. Let me flatter 

i I myself that this sweet little fellow who is just now running about my desk, 

I will be a man of a melting, ardent, glowing heart ; and an imagination, de- 

I I lighted with the painter, and rapt with the poet. Let me figure liim, 

i wandering out in a sweet evening, to inhale the balmy gales, and enjoy the 

I I growing luxuriance of the spring ; himself the while in the blooming youth 

j i of life. He looks abroad on all nature, and through nature up to nature's 

I I God. His soul, by swift, delighted degrees, is rapt above this sublunary 

I j sj)here, until he can be silent no longer, and bursts out into the glorious 

i ! enthusiasm of Thomson, 



I j ' These, as they change, Ahnighty Father, these 

i i Are but the varied God — The rolling year 

j I Is full of Thee ;' 

j and so on, in all the spirit and ardour of that charming hymn. — These are 

i I no ideal pleasures ; they are real delights ; and I ask what of the delights 

I i among the sons of men are superior, not to say, equal to them? And they 

I i have this precious, vast addition, that conscious virtue stamps them for her 

i I own ; and lays hold on them to bring herself into the presence of a witness- 

I ing. judging, and approving God." 

j j They who have been told that Burns was ever a degraded being — who 

I j have permitted themselves to believe that his only consolations were those 

i i of " the opiate guilt applies to grief," will do well to pause over this noble 

1 I letter and judge for themselves. The enemy under which he was destined 

I I to sink, had already beaten in the outworks of his constitution when these 

i j lines were penned. The reader has already had occasion to observe, that 

; I Burns had in those closing years of his life to struggle almost continually 

! ! with pecuniary difficulties, than which nothing could have been more like- 

i I ly to pour bitterness intolerable into the cup of his existence. His lively 

! I imagination exaggerated to itself every real evil; and this among, and per- 

I I haps above, all the rest ; at least, in many of his letters we find him alluding 

; j to the probability of his being arrested for debts, which we now know to 

j have been of very trivial amount at the worst, which we also know he him- 

I self lived to discharge to the utmost farthing, and in regard to which it is 

I j impossible to doubt that his personal friends in Dumfries would have at all 

i I times been ready to prevent the law taking its ultimate course. This last 

I ; consideration, however, was one which would have given slender relief to 

I j Burns. How he shrunk with horror and loathing from the sense of pecu- 

I niary obligation, no matter to whom, we have had abundant indications al- 

i ready. 

I The following extract from one of his letters to Mr. Macmurdo, dated 

j December 1793, will speak for itself: — " Sir, it is said that we take the 

! greatest liberties with our greatest friends, and i pay myself a very high 

! compliment in the manner in which 1 am going to apply the remark. I 

I have owed you money longer than ever I owed it to any man. — Here is 

I Ker's account, and here are six guineas; and now, 1 don't owe a shillitig 

to man, or woman either. But for these damned dirty, dog's-eared little 

pages, (bank-notes), I had done myself the honour to have waited on 

vou long ago. Independent of the obligations yopr hospitality has lait? 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cx^ 

me under, the consciousness of your superiority in the rank of man and 
gentleman of itself was fully as much as I could ever make head against 
but to owe you money too, was more than I could face. 

The question naturally arises : Burns was all this while pouring out hi? 
beautiful songs for the Museum of Johnson and the greater work of Thom- 
son ; how did he happen to derive no pecuniary advantages from this con- 
tinual exertion of his genius in a form of composition so eminently calcu- 
lated for popularity ? Nor, indeed, is it an easy matter to answer this very 
obvious question. The poet himself, in a letter to Mr. Carfrae, dated 
1789, speaks thus : — " The profits of the labours of a man of genius are, I 
hope, as honourable as any profits whatever ; and Mr. Mylne's relations 
are most justly entitled to that honest harvest which fate has denied him- 
self to reap." And yet, so far from looking to Mr. Johnson for any pecu- 
niary remuneration for the very laborious part he took in his work, it ap- 
pears from a passage in Cromek's Reliques, that the poet asked a single 
copy of the Museum to give to a fair friend, by way of a great favour to 
himself — and that that copy and his own were really all he ever received 
at the hands of the publisher. Of the secret history of Johnson and his 
book I know nothing ; but the Correspondence of Burns with Mr. Thomson 
contains curious enough details concerning his connexion with that gentle- 
man's more important undertaking. At the outset, September 1792, we 
find Mr. Thomson saying, <' We will esteem your poetical assistance a 
particular favour, besides paying any reasonable price you shall please to 
demand for it. Profit is quite a secondary consideration with us, and we 
are resolved to save neither pains nor expense on the publication." To 
which Burns replies immediately, " As to any remuneration, you may think 
my songs either above or below price ; for they shall absolutely be the one 
or the other. In the honest enthusiasm with which I embark in your un- 
dertaking, to talk of money, wages, fee, hire, &c. would be downright pros- 
titution of soul. A proof of each of the songs that I compose or amend I 
shall receive as a favour. In the rustic phrase of the season, Gude speed 
the work.'' The next time we meet with any hint as to money matters in 
the Correspondence is in a letter of Mr. Thomson, 1st July 179:3, where 
he says, " I cannot express how much I am obliged to you for the exqui- 
site new songs you are sending me ; but thanks, my friend, are a poor re- 
turn for what you have done ; as I shall be benefited by the publication, 
you must suffer me to enclose a small mark of my gratitude, and to repeat 
it afterwards when I find it convenient. Do not return it, for, by Heaven, 
if you do, our correspondence is at an end." To which letter (it inclosed 
i 5) Burns thus replies : — " 1 assure you my dear Sir, that you truly hurt 
me with your pecuniary parcel. It degrades me in my own eyes. Mow- 
ever, to return it would savour of affectation ; but as to any more traffic of 
that debtor and creditor kind, I swear by that honour which crowns the 
upright statue of Robert Burns's integrity — on the least motion of it, I 
will indignantl}^ spurn the by-past transaction, and from that moment com- 
mence entire stranger to you. Burns's character for generosity of senti- 
ment and independence of mind will, I trust, long outlive any of his wants 
which the cold unfeeling ore can supply : at least, I will take care that 
such a character he shall deserve." — In November 1 794, we find Mr. Thom- 
son writing to Burns, " Do not, I beseech you, return any books." — In May 
1795, " You really make me blush when you tell me you have not merited 
the drawing from me ;" (this was a drawing of The Cottar s Saturday Night 



cxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

by Alian) ; " I do not think I can ever repay you, or sufficiently esteem 
and respect you, for the Hberal and kind manner in which you have enter- 
ed into the spirit of my undertaking, which could not have been perfectec 
witliout you. So I beg you would not make a fool of me again by speak 
ing of obligation." In February 1796, we have Burns acknowledgii/g a 

" handsome elegant present to Mrs. B ," which was a worsted shawl. 

Lastly, on the 12th July of the same year, (that is, little more than a w^eek 
before Burns died), he writes to Mr. Thomson in these terms : — " After 
all my boasted independence, cursed necessity compels me to implore you 
for five pounds. A cruel of a haberdasher, to whom I owe an ac- 
count, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a process, 
and will infallibly put me into jail. Do, for God's sake, send me that 
sum, and that by return of post. Forgive me this earnestness ; but .the hor- 
rors of a jail have put me half distr.acted. — I do not ask this gratuitously , 
for, upon returning health, I hereby promise and engage to furnish you 
with five pounds worth of the neatest song genius you have seen." To 
which Mr. Thomson replies — " Ever since I received your melancholy let- 
ter by Mrs. Hyslop, 1 have been ruminating in what manner i could en- 
deavour to alleviate your sufferings. Again and again I thought of a pe- 
cuniary offer ; but the recollection of one of your letters on this subject, 
and the fear of offending your independent spirit, checked my resolution. 
I thank you heartily, therefore, for the frankness of your letter of the 1 2th, 
and with great pleasure enclose a draft for the very sum I proposed send- 
ing. Would I were Chancellor of the Exchequer but one day for your 

sake ! Pray, my good Sir, is it not possible for you to muster a volume 

of poetry ? Do not shun this method of obtaining the value of 

your labour ; remember Pope published the Iliad by subscription. Think 
of this, my dear Burns, and do not think me intrusive with my advice." 

Such are the details of this matter, as recorded in the correspondence 
of the two individuals concerned. Some time after Burns's death, Mr. 
Thomson was attacked on account of his behaviour to the poet, in a novel 
called Nubilia. In Professor Walker s Memoirs of Burns, which appeared 
in 1816, Mr. Thomson took the opportunity of defending himself thus : — 

" I have been attacked with much bitterness, and accused of not endea- 
vouring to remunerate Burns for the songs which he wrote for my collec- 
tion ; although there is the clearest evidence of the contrary, both in the 
printed correspondence between the poet and me, and in the public testi- 
mony of Dr. Currie. My assailant, too, without knowing any thing of the 
matter, states, that I had enriched myself by the labours of Burns ; and, 
of course, that my want of generosity was inexcusable. Now, the fact is, 
that notwithstanding the united labours of all the men of genius who have 
enriched my collection, I am not even yet compensated for the precious 
time consumed by me in poring over musty volumes, and in corresponding 
with every amateur and poet by whose means I expected to make any va- 
luable additions to our national music and song ; — for the exertion and mo- 
ney it cost me to obtain accompaniments from the greatest masters of har- 
mony in Vienna; — and for the sums paid to engravers, printers, and others. 
On this subject, the testimony of Mr. Preston in London, a maii of un- 
questionable and well-known character, who has printed the music for 
every copy of my work, may be more satisfactory than any thing 1 can 
say : In August 1 809, he wrote me as follows : ' I am concerned at the 
very unwa "antable attack which has been made upon you by the author 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxni [ 

Vif Nahilia ; nothing could be more unjust than to say you had enrlclied ' 
yourself by Burns's labours ; for the whole concern, though it includes th<? j 
labours of Haydn, has scarcely afforded a compensation for the various ex^ | 
penses, and for the time employed on the work. When a v\^ork obtains \ 
any celebrity, publishers are generally supposed to derive a profit ten times | 
beyond the reality ; the sale Is greatly magnified, and the expenses are noi j 
in the least taken into consideration. It is trul}'- vexatious to be so grossly i 
and scandalously abused for conduct, the very reverse of which has been | 
manifest through the whole transaction.' — Were I the sordid man that the : 
anonymous author calls me, I had a most inviting opportunity to profit | 
much more than I did by the lyrics of our great bard. He had written i 
above fifty songs expressly for my work ; they were in my possession un- j 
published at his death ; I had the right and the power of retaining them 
till I should be ready to publish them ; but when I was informed that an ! 
edition of the poet's works was projected for the benefit of his family, I put | 
them in immediate possession of the whole of his songs, as well as letters, ; 
and thus enabled Dr. Currie to complete the four volumes which were sold | 
for the family's behoof to Messrs. Cadell and Davies. And I have the sa- ! 
tisfaction of knowing, that the most zealous friends of the family, Mr. Cun- I 
ninghame, Mr. Syme, and Dr. Currie, and the poet's own brother, consi- ! 
dered my sacrifice of the prior right of pubhshing the songs, as no ungrate- | 
ful return for the disinterested and liberal conduct of the poet. Accord- j 
ingly, Mr. Gilbert Burns, in a letter to me, which alone might suffice for ! 
an answer to all the novelist's abuse, thus expresses himself : — ' If ever 
I come to Edinburgh, 1 will certainly call on a person whose handsome con- t 
duct to my brother's family has secured my esteem, and confirmed me in i 
the opinion", that musical taste and talents have a close connexion with the I 
harmony of the moral feelings.' Nothing is farther from my thoughts | 
than to claim any merit for what I did. 1 never would have said a word | 
on the subject, but for the harsh and groundless accusation which has been j 
brought forward, either by Ignorance or animosity, and which I have long | 
suffered to remain unnoticed, from my great dislike to any public ap- 
pearance." 

This statement of Mr. Thomson supersedes the necessity of any addi- 
tional remarks, (writes Professor Walker). When the public is satisfied; 
when the relations of Burns are grateful ; and, above all, when the delicate 
mind of Mr. Thomson is at peace with Itself In contemplating his conduct, 
there can be no necessity for a nameless novelist to contradict them.. 

So far, Mr. Walker : — ^^'hy Burns, who v/as of opinion, when he wrote 
his letter to Mr. Carfrae, that " no profits are more honourable than those 
of the labours of a man of genius," and whose own notions of independence 
had sustained no shock In the receipt of hundreds of pounds from Creech, 
should have spurned the suggestion of pecuniary recompense from '1 h-om- 
son, it is no easy matter to explain : nor do I profess to understand why Mr. 
Thomson took so little pains to argue the matter in limine with the poet, 
and convince him, that the time which he himself considered as fairly en- 
titled to be paid for by a common bookseller, ought of right to be valued 
and acknowledged on similar terms by the editor and proprietor of a book 
containing both songs and music. They order these things differently 
now : a living lyric poet whom none will place in a higher rank than Bums, 
has long. It is understood, been in the habit of receiving about as much 
money annually for an annual handful of songs, as was ever naid to oui 
bard for the whole body of his writings. 



nxviii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

Ofthe Increasing irritability of our poet's temperameni, annidst those trou 
bles, external and internal, that preceded his last ilhiess, his letters furnish 
proofs, to dwell on which could only inflict unnecessary pain. Let one ex- 
ample suffice. — " Sunday closes a period of our curst revenue business, 
and may probably keep me employed with my pen until noon. Tine em 

ployment for a poet's pen ! Here I sit, altogether Novemberish, a d 

melange of fretfulness and melancholy ; not enough of the one to rouse me 
to passion, nor of the other to repose me in torpor ; my soul flouncing and 
fluttering round her tenement, like a wild finch, caught amid the horrors 
of winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I am persuaded that it 
was of me the Hebrew sage prophesied, when he foretold — ' And behold, 
on whatsoever this man doth set his heart, it shall not prosper !' Pray that 
wisdom and bliss be more frequent visitors of R. B." 

Towards the close cf 179d Burns was, as has been previously mention- 
ed, employed as an acting Supervisor of Excise. This was apparently a 
step to a permanent situation of that higher and more lucrative class ; and 
from thence, there was every reason to believe, the kind patronage of Mr. 
Graham might elevate him yet farther. These hopes, however, were mingl- 
ed and darkened with sorrow. For four months of that year his youngest 
child lingered through an illness of which every week promised to be the 
last ; and she was finally cut off when the poet, who had watched her with 
anxious tenderness, was from home on professional business. This was a 
severe blow, and his own nerves, though as yet he had not taken any seri- 
ous alarm about his ailments, were ill fitted to withstand it. 

" There had need," he writes to Mrs. Dunlop, 15th December, " there 
had much need be many pleasures annexed to the states of husband and 
father, for God knows, they have many peculiar cares. 1 cannot describe 
to you the anxious, sleepless hours these ties frequently give me. 1 see a 
train of helpless little folks ; me and my exertions all their stay ; and on 
what a brittle thread does the life of man hang ! If I am nipt off at the 
command of fate, even in all the vigour of manhood as I am, such things 
happen every day — gracious God ! what would become of my little flock ! 
"fis here that I envy your people of fortune. — A father on his death-bed, 
taking an everlasting leave of his children, has indeed woe enough ; but 
the man of competent fortune leaves his sons and daughters independency 
and friends ; while 1 — but 1 shall run distracted if 1 think any longer on 
the subject." 

To the same lady, on the 29th of the month, he, after mentioning his 
supervisorship, and saying that at last his political sins seemed to be for- 
given him — goes on in this ominous tone — " What a transient business is 
life ! Very lately I was a boy ; but t'other day a young man ; and 1 already 
begin to feel the rigid fibre and stiffening joints of old age coming fast over 
my frame." We may trace the melancholy sequel in the iev,' following 
extracts. 

" 31.v^ January 179(5. — I have lately drunk deep ofthe cup of afflic- 
tion. 'Ihe autumn robbed me of my only daughter and darling child, and 
that at a distance too, and so rapidly, as to put it out of my power to pay 
the last duties to her. 1 had scarcely begun to recover from that shock 
when 1 became myself the victim of a most severe rheumatic fever, and 
long the die spun doubtful ; until, after many weeks of a sick bed, it seems 
to have turned up life, and 1 am beginnmg to crawl across my room, a»>'? 
once indeed have been before my own d:^.r in the street. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURXS. cxlx \ 

*' When pleasure fascinates the mental sight, j 

Affliction purifies the visual ray, _ | 

Roiigion hails the drear, the untried night, j 
That shuts, for ever shuts ! life's doubtful day." 



But a few daj? after this, Burns was so exceedingly imprudent as to join 
R festive circle at a tavern dinner, where he remained till about three in the 
morning. The weather was severe, and he, being much intoxicated, took 
no precaution in thus exposing his debilitated frame to its influence. It 
has been said, that he fell asleep upon the snow on his way home. It 
is certain, that next morning he was sensible of an icy numbness through 
all his joints — that his rheumatism returned with tenfold force upon him — 
and that from that unhappy hour, his mind brooded ominously on the fatal 
issue. The course of medicine to which he submitted was violent ; con- 
finement, accustomed as he had been to much bodily exercise, preyed 
miserably on all his powers ; he drooped visibly, and all the hopes of his 
friends, that health would return with summer, were destined to disap- 
pointment. 

" 4th June 1796.* — I am in such miserable health as to be utterly inca- 
pable of showing my loyalty in any M^ay. Rackt as I am with rheuma- 
tisms, I meet every ^ace with a greeting like that of Balak and Balaam, — 
' Come curse me Jacob ; and come defy me Israel.' " 

*' 1th July. — I fear the voice of the Bard will soon be heard among you 
no more. — For these eight or ten months I have been ailing, sometimes 
bed-fast and sometimes not ; but these last three months I have been tor- 
tured with an excruciating rheumatism which has reduced me to nearly the 
last stage. You actually would not know me if you saw me — pale, emaci- 
ated, and so feeble, as occasionally to need help from my chair. — My spirits 
fled ! fled ! But I can no more on the subject." 

I'his last letter was addressed to Mr. Cunningham of Edinburgh, from 
the small village of Brow on the Solway Frith, about ten miles from Dum- 
fries, to which the poet removed about the end of June ; " the medical 
folks," as he says, " having told him that his last and only chance was | I 
bathing, country quarters, and riding." In separating himself by their ad- | ! 
vice from his family for these purposes, he carried with him a heavy bur- | | 
den of care. " The duce of the matter," he writes, " is this ; when an ex- j j 
ciseman is off duty, his salary is reduced. What way, in the name of thrift, j j 
shall I maintain myself and keep a horse in country quarters on i;33 ?' | j 
He implored his friends in Edinburgh, to make interest with the Board to | | 
grant him his full salary ; if they do not, I must lay my account with an | i 
exit truly en poete — if I die not of disease, I must perish with hunger." | j 

Mrs. Riddell of Glenriddel, a beautiful and very accomplished woman, | | 
to whom many of Burns's most interesting letters, in the latter years of his j | 
life, were addressed, happened to be in the neighbourhood of Brow when 1 j 
Burns reached his bathing quarters, and exerted herself to make him as i i 
comfortable as circumstances permitted. Having sent her carriage for his ; j 
conveyance, the poet visited her on the 5th July; and she has, in a letter 
published by Dr. Currie, thus described his appearance and conversation 
on that occasion : — 

" I was struck with his appearance on entering the room. The stamp 
of death was impressed on his features. He seemed already touching the 
brink of eternity. His first salutation was, ' Well, Madam, have you an^ 

* The birth-day of George III. 



1 1 



cxx LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

commands for tlie other world ?' I replied that it seemed a doubtful case 
which of us should be there soonest, and that I hoped he would yet live tc 

I write my epitaph. (I was then in a poor state of health.) He looked in my 

i face with an air of great kindness, and expressed his concern at seeing me 

I look so ill, with his accustomed sensibility. At table he ate little or no* 

j I thing, and he complained of having entirely lost the tone of his stomach. 

I j We had a long and serious conversation about his present situation, and 

I I tlie approaching termination of all his earthly prospects. He spoke of his 

j ! death without any of the ostentation of philosophy, but with firmness as 

I well as feeling — as an event likely to happen very soon, and which gave 

I ! him concern chiefly from leaving his four children so young and unprotect- 

j j ed, and his wife in so interesting a situation — in the hourly expectation of 

I I lying-in of a fifth. He mentioned, with seeming pride and satisfaction, 

! I the promising genius of his eldest son, and the flattering marks of appro- 

I I bation he had received from his teachers, and dwelt particularly on hi? 

I j hopes of that boy's future conduct and merit. His anxiety for his family 

I seemed to hang heavy upon him, and the more perhaps from the reflection 

j that he had not done them all the justice he was so well qualified to do. 

! Passing from this subject, he showed great concern about the care of his lite- 

I I rary fame, and particularly the publication of his posthumous works. He 

I I said he was well aware that his death would occasion some noise, and that 

I i every scrap of his writings would be revived against him to the injury of his 

I i future reputation : that letters and verses written with unguarded and im- 

j I proper freedom, and which he earnestly wished to have buried in oblivion, 

I I would be handed about by idle vanity or malevolence, when no dread of his 

i ' resentment would restrain them, or prevent the censures of shrill-tongued 

! malice, or the insidious sarcasms of envy, from pouring forth ail their ve- 

j j nom to blast his fame. He lamented that he had written many epigrams 

j on persons against whom he entertained no enmity, and whose characters 

! I he should be sorry to wound ; and many indifferent poetical pieces, which 

j I he feared would now, with all their imperfections on their head, be thrust 

I i upon the world. On this account he deeply regretted having deferred to 

j I put his papers into a state of arrangement, as he was now quite incapable ot 

! i the exertion. — The conversation was kept up with great evenness and ani- 

I I mation on his side. I have seldom seen his mind greater or more collected. 

i 1 There was frequently a considerable degree of vivacity in his sallies, and 

' I they, would probably have had a greater share, had not the concern and 

j I dejection I could not disguise, damped the spirit of pleasantry he seemed 

I I not unv/illing to indulge. — We parted about sun-set on the evening of that 

! ! day (the 5th of July 1796) ; the next day I saw him again, and we parted 

I i to meet no more !" 

I I I do not know the exact date of the following letter to Mrs Burns: — 

j I " Brow, Thursday. — My dearest Love, I delayed writing until 1 could 

! I tell you what effect sea-bathing was likely to produce. !t would be injus- 

j tice to deny that it lias eased my pains, and I think has strengthened me 

i I but my appetite is still extremely bad. No flesh nor fish can 1 swallow . 

[ I porridge and milk are the only things I can taste. I am very happy to 

; hear, by Miss Jess Lewars, that you are all well. My very best and kind- 

I j est compliments to her and to all the children. I will see you on Sunday. 

I I Your affectionate husband, R. B." 

• ' There is a very affecting letter to Gilbert, dated the 7th, in which tht 

I I Doe* says, " I am dangerously ill, and not likely to get better. — God keep 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxi 

m}' wife and children." On the 12th, he wrote the letter to Mr. George 
Thomson, above quoted, requesting £5 ; and, on the same day, he penned 
also the following — the last letter that he ever wrote — to his friend Mrs, 
Dunlop. 

" Madam, I have written you so often, without receiving any answer, 
that I would not trouble you again, but for the circumstances in which ^ 
am. An illness which has long hung about me, in all probability will speed- 
ily send me beyond that bom-ne whence no traveller returns. Your friend- 
ship, with which for many years you honoured me, was a friendship 
dearest to my soul. Your conversation, and especially your correspondence, 
were at once highly entertaining and instructive. With what pleasure did 
I use to. break up the seal ! The remembrance yet adds one pulse more to 
my poor palpitating heart. Farewell ! ! !" 

I give the following anecdote in the words of Mr. M'Diarmid :* — 
" Rousseau, we all know, when dying, v/ished to be carried into the open 
■air, that he might obtain a parting look of the glorious orb of day. A night 
or two before Burns left Brow, he drank tea with Mrs. Craig, widow of the 
minister of Ruthwell. His altered appearance excited much silent sympa- 
thy ; and the evening being beautiful, and the sun shining brightly through 
the casement, Miss Craig (now Mrs. Henry Duncan), was afraid the light 
might be too much for him, and rose with the view of letting down the win- 
dov/ blinds Burns immediately guessed what she meant ; and, regarding 
the young lady with a look of great benignity, said, ' Thank you, my dear, 
for your kind attention ; but, oh, let him shine ; he will not shine long for 
me.' " 

On the 1 8th, despairing of any benefit from the sea, our poet came bacK 
to Dumfries. Mr. Allan Cunningham, who saw him arrive " visibly chang- 
ed in his looks, being with difficulty able to stand upright, and reach his 
own door," has given a striking picture, in one of his essays, of the state of 
popular feeling in the town during the short space which intervened between 
his return and his death. — " Dumfries vras like a besieged place. It was 
known he was dying, and the anxiety, not of the rich and learned only, but 
of the mechanics and peasants, exceeded all belief. Wherever two or 
three people stood together, their talk was of Burns, and of him alone. 
They spoke of his history — of his person — of his works — of his family — of 
his fame— and of his untimely and approaching fate, with a warmth and an 
enthusiasm which will ever endear Dumfries to my remembrance. All that 
he said or was saying — the opinions of the physicians, (and Maxwell was a 
kind and a skilful one), were eagerly caughc up and reported from street to 
street, and from house to house." 

" His good humour," Cunningham adds, <' was unruffled, and his wit ne- 
ver forsook him. He looked to one of his fellow volunteers with a smile, 
as he stood by the bed-side with his eyes wet, and said, ' John, don't let 
the awkward squad fire over me.' He repressed with a smile the hopes of 
his friends, and told them he had lived long enough. As his life drew near 
a close, the eager yet decorous solicitude of his fellow townsmen iacreased. 
It is the practice of the young men of Dumfries to meet in the streets 
during the hours of remission from labour, and by these means I had an 
opportunity of witnessing the general sohcitude of all ranks and of all ages. 
His diirerences with them on some important points were forgotten and for- 

* I take the opportunity of once more acknowledging my great obligations to this i^ntle* 
man, who is I understand, connected by his marriage with the family of the poet. 



cxxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

given ; they thought only of his genius — of the dehght his compositions 
had diffused — and they talked of him with the same awe as of some depart- 
ing spirit, whose voice was to gladden them no more." * 

•' A tremour now pervaded his frame," says Dr. Currie, on the authority 
of the physician who attended him ; " his tongue was parched- and his mind 
sunk into delirium, when not roused by conversation. On the second and 
third day the fever increased, and his strength diminished." On the fourth, 
July 21st 1796, Robert Burns died. 

" I went to see him laid out for the grave," says Mr. Allan Cunning- 
ham ; " several elder people were with me. He lay in a plain unadorned 
coffin, with a linen sheet drawn over his face ; and on the bed, and around 
the body, herbs and flowers were thickly strewn, according to the usage ot 
the country. He was wasted somewhat by long illness ; but death had not 
increased the swarthy hue of his face, which was uncommonly dark and 
deeply marked — his broad and open brow was pale and serene, and around 
it his sable hair lay in masses, slightly touched with grey. The room 
where he lay was plain and neat, and the simplicity of the poet's humble 
dwelling pressed the presence of death more closely on the heart than if 
his bier had been embellished by vanity, and covered with the blazonry of 
high ancestry and rank. We stood and gazed on him in silence for the 
space of several minutes- — we went, and others succeeded us — not a whis- 
per was heard. This was several days after his death." 

On the 25th of July, the remains of the poet were rem.oved to the Trades 
Hall, where they lay in state until the next morning. The volunteers of 
Dumfries were determined to inter their illustrious comrade (as indeed he 
had anticipated) with military honours. The chief persons of the town and 
neighbourhood resolved to make part of the procession ; and not a {"ew tra- 
velled from great distances to witness the solemnity. The streets were 
lined by the Fen.nble Infantry of Angusshire, and the Cavalry of the Cinque 
Ports, then quarted at Dumfries, whose commander, Lord Hawksbury, (af- 
terwards Earl of Liverpool), although he had always declined a personal 
introduction to the poet, f officiated as one of the chief mourners. " The 
multitude who accompanied Burns to the grave, went step by step," says 
Cunningham, " witli the chief mourners. They might amount to ten or 
twelve thousand. Not a word was heard .... It was an impressive and 
mournful sight to see men of all ranks and persuasions and opinions ming- 
ling as brothers, and stepping side by side down the streets of Dumfries, 
with the remains of him who had sung of their loves and joys and domes- 
tic endearments, with a truth and a tenderness which none perhaps have 
since equalled. I could, indeed, have wished the military part of the pro- 
cession away. The scarlet and gold — the banners displayed — the mea- 
sured step, and the military array — with the sounds of martial instruments 
of music, had no share in increasing the solemnity of the burial scene ; and 
had no connexion with the poet. 1 looked on it then, and I consider it 
now, as an idle ostentation, a piece of superfluous state which might have 
been spared, more especially as his neglected, and traduced, and insulted 
spirit had experienced no kindness in the body from those lofty people who 

are now proud of being numbered as his coevals and countrymen 

I found myself at the brink of the poet's grave, into which he was about to 
descend for ever. There was a pause among the mourners, as if loath to 

• In the London Magarine, 1824. Article, " Robe Burns and Lord Byron." 
+ So Mr. Syme has informed Mr. M'Dia.riud 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxiii 

part with his remains ; and when he was at last lowered, and the first sho- 
velful of earth sounded on his coffin lid, I looked up and saw tears on many 
cheeks where tears were not usual. The volunteers justified the fears oi 
their comrade, by three ragged and straggling volleys. The earth was 
heaped up, the green sod laid over him, and the multitude stood gaz- 
ing on the grave for some minutes' space, and then melted silently away. 
The day was a fine one, the sun was almost without a cloud, and not a 
drop of rain fell from dawn to twilight. I notice this, not from any con- 
currence in the common superstition, that ' happy is the corpse which the 
rain rains on,' but to confute the pious fraud of a religious Magazine, 
which made Heaven express its wrath, at the interment of a profane poet, 
in thunder, in lightning, and in rain." 

During the funeral solemnity, Mrs, Burns was seized with the pains of 
labour, and gave birth to a posthumous son, who quickly followed bis fa- 
ther to the grave. Mr. Cunningham describes the appearance of the fa- 
mily, when they at last emerged from their home of sorrow : — " A weep- 
ing widow and four helpless sons ; they came into the streets in their mourn- 
ings, and public sympathy was awakened afresh. I shall never forget the 
looks of his boys, and the compassion which they excited. The poet's life 
had n®t been without errors, and such errors, too, as a wife is slow in for- 
giving ; but he was honoured then, and is honoured now, by the unaliena- 
ble affection of his wife, and the world repays her prudence and her love 
by its regard and esteem." 

Immediately after the poet's death, a subscription was opened for the 
benefit of his family ; Mr. Miller of Dalswinton, Dr. Maxwell, Mr. Syme, 
Mr. Cunningham, and Mr. M'Murdo, becoming trustees for the application 
of the money. Many names from other parts of Scotland appeared in the 
fists, and not a few from England, especially London and Liverpool. Seven 
hundred pounds were in this way collected ; an additional sum was for- 
warded from India ; and the profits of Dr. Currie's Life and Edition of 
Burns were also considerable. The result has been, that the sons of the 
poet received an excellent education, and that Mrs. Burns has continued 
to reside, enjoying a decent independence, in the house where the poet 
died, situated in what is now, by the authority of the Magistrates of Dum- 
fries, called Burns' Street. 

" Of the (four surviving) sons of the poet," says their uncle Gilbert in 
>820, " Robert, the eldest, is placed as a clerk in the Stamp Office, Lon- 
don, (Mr. Burns still remains in that establishment), Francis Wallace, the 
second, died in 1808 ; William Nicoll, the third, went to Madras in 1811 ; 
and James Glencairn, the youngest, to Bengal in 181 '2, both as cadets in 
the Honourable Company's service." These young gentlemen have all, it 
is believed, conducted themselves through life in a manner highly honour- 
able to themselves, and to the name which they bear. One of them, 
(James), as soon as his circumstances permitted, settled a liberal annuity 
on his estimable mother, which she still survives to enjoy. 

The great poet himself, whose name is enough to ennobk his children's 
children, was, to the eternal disgrace of his country, suffered to live and 
die in penury, and, as far as such a creature could be degraded by any ex- 
ternal circumstances, in degradation. Who can open the page of Burns, 
and remember without a blush, that the author of such verses, the human 
being whose breast glowed with such feelings, was doomed to earn mere 
bread for his children by casting up the stock of publicans' cellars, and rid 



cxxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

ing over moors and mosses in quest of smuggling stills ? The subscription 
for his poems was, for the time, large and liberal, and perhaps absolves the 
gentry of Scotland as individuals ; but that some strong movement of in- 
dignation did not spread over the whole kingdom, when it was known that 
Robert Burns, after being caressed and flattered by the noblest and most 
learned of his countrymen, was about to be established as a common ganger 
among the wilds of Niths^lale — and that, after he was so established, no 
interference from a highei quarter arrested that unworthy career : — these 
are circumstances which must continue to bear heavily on the memory ot 
that generation of Scotsmen, and especially of those who then adminis- 
tered the public patronage of Scotland. 

In defence, or at least in palliation, of this national crim.e, two false ar 
guments, the one resting on facts grossly exaggerated, the other having no 
foundation whatever either on knowledge or on wisdom, have been rashly 
set up, and arrogantly as well as ignorantly maintained. To the one, 
namely, that public patronage would have been wrongfully bestowed on the 
Poet, because the Exciseman was a political partizan, it is hoped the de- 
tails embodied in this narrative have supplied a sufficient answer : had the 
matter been as bad as the boldest critics have ever ventured to insinuate, 
Sir Walter Scott's answer would still have remained — " this partizan was 
Burns.'* The other argument is a still more heartless, as well as absurd 
one ; to wit, that from the moral character and habits of the man, no pa- 
tronage, however liberal, could have influenced and controlled his conduct, 
so as to work lasting and effective improvement, and lengthen his life by 
raising it more nearly to the elevation of his genius. This is indeed a can- 
did and a generous method of judging ! Are imprudence and intemperance, 
then, found to increase usually in proportion as the worldly circumstances 
of men are easy ? Is not the very opposite of this doctrine acknowledged 
by almost all that have ever tried the reverses of Fortune's wheel them- 
selves — by all that have contemplated, from an elevation not too high for 
sympathy, the usual course of manners, when their fellow creatures either 
encounter or live in constant apprehension of 

"" The thousand ills that rise where money fails, 
Debts, threats, and duns, bills, bailiffs, writs, and jails?" 

To such mean miseries the latter years of Burns's life were exposed, no 
less than his early youth, and after what natural buoyancy of animal spirits 
he ever possessed, had sunk under the influence of time, which, surely 
bringing experience, fails seldom to bring care also and sorrow, to spirits 
more mercurial than his ; and in what bitterness of heart he submitter^ to 
his fate, let his own burning words once more tell us. " Take," says iie, 
writing to one who never ceased to be his friend — " take these two guineas, 
and place them over against that **'**** account of yours, which has gag- 
ged my mouth these five or six months ! 1 can as little write good things 
as apologies to the man I owe money to. O, the supreme curse of mak- 
ing three guineas do the business of five ! Poverty ! thou half sister of 
death, thou cousin-german of hell ! Oppressed by thee, the man of senti- 
ment, whose heart glows with independence, and melts with sensibility 
inly pines under the neglect, or writhes in bitterness of soul, under the 
contumely of arrogant, unfeeling wealth. Oppressed by thee, the son of 
genius, whose ill-starred ambition plants him at the tables of the fashion- 
able and polite, must see, in suffering silence, his remark neglected, and 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxv 

his person despised, while shallow greatness, in his idiot attempts at wit, 
sJiall meet with countenance and applause. Nor is it only the family of 
worth that have reason to complain of thee ; the children of folly and vice, 
though, in common with thee, the offspring of evil, smart equally under 
thy rod. The man of unfortunate disposition and neglected education, is 
condemned as a fool for his dissipation, despised and shunned as a needy 
wretch, when his follies, as usual, bring him to want ; and when his neces- 
sities drive him to dishonest practices, he is abhorred as a miscreant, and 
perishes by the justice of his country. But far otherwise is the lot of the 
man of family and fortune. His early follies and extravagance, are spirit 
and fire ; his consequent wants, are the embarrassments of an honest 
fellow ; and when, to remedy the matter, he has gained a legal commis- 
sion to plunder distant provinces, or massacre peaceful nations, he returns, 
perhaps, laden with the spoils of rapine and murder ; lives wicked and 
respected, and dies a ******* and a lord ! — Nay, worst of all, alas for 
helpless woman ! the needy prostitute, who has shivered at the corner of 
the street, waiting to earn the wages of casual prostitution, is left neglect- 
ed and insulted, ridden down by the chariot wheels of the coroneted rip, 
hurrying on to the guilty assignation ; she, who, without the same neces- 
sities to plead, riots nightly in the same guilty trade. — Well : divines may 
say of it what they please, but execretion is to the mind, what phlebotomy 
is to the body ; the vital sluices of both are wonderfully relieved by their 
respective evacuations." * 

In such evacuations of indignant spleen the proud heart of many an un- 
fortunate genius, besides this, has found or sought relief: and toother 
more dangerous indulgences, the affliction of such sensitive spirits had of- 
ten, ere his time, condescended. The list is a long and a painful one ; and 
it includes some names that can claim but a scanty share in the apology ot 
Burns. Addison himself, the elegant, the philosophical, the religious Ad- 
dison, must be numbered with these offenders : — Jonson, Cotton, Prior, 
Parnell, Otway, Savage, all sinned in the same sort, and the transgressions 
of them all have been leniently dealt with, in comparison with those of one 
whose genius was probably greater than 2iny of theirs ; his appetites more 
fervid, his temptations more abundant, his repentance more severe. T\\e 
beautiful genius of Collins sunk under similar contaminations ; and those 
who have from dullness of head, or sourness of heart, joined in the too ge- 
neral clamour against Burns, may learn a lesson of candour, of mercy, and 
of justice, from the language in which one of the best of men, and loftiest 
of moralists, has commented on frailties that hurried a kindred spirit to a 
like untimely grave. 

" In a long continuance of poverty, and long habits of dissipation," savs 
Johnson, " it cannot be expected that any character should be exactly uni- 
form. That this man, wise and virtuous as he was, passed always unen- 
tangled through the snares of life, it would be prejudice and temerity to 
affirm : but it may be said that he at least preserved the source of action 
unpolluted, that his principles were never shaken, that his distinctions of 
right and wrong were never confounded, and that his faults had nothing of 
malignity or design, but proceeded from some unexpected pressure or ca- 
sual temptation. Such was the fate of Collins, with whom 1 once de- 
lighted to converse, and whom I yet remember with tenderness." 

• Letter to Mr. Peter HiU, bookseller, Edinburgh. General Correspondence, p. 328. 



! 



cxxvi LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

Burns was an honest man : after all his struggles, he owed no man a 
shilling when he died. His heart was always warm and his hand open. 
" His charities," says Mr. Gray, " were great beyond his means ;" and 1 
have to thank Mr. Allan Cunningham for the following anecdote, for which 
I am sure every reader will thank him too. Mr. Maxwell of Teraughty, 
an old, austere, sarcastic gentleman, who cared nothing about poetry, used 
to say when the Excise-books of the district were produced at the meet- 
ings ot the Justices, — " Bring me Burns's journal : it always does me good 
to see it, for it shows that an honest officer may carry a kind heart about 
with him." 

Of his religious principles, we are bound to judge by what he has told 
himself in his more serious moments. He sometimes doubted with the 
sorrow, what in the main, and above all, in the end, he believed with the 
fervour of a poet. '• It occasionally haunts me," says he in one of his let- 
ters, — " the dark suspicion, that immortality may be only too good news to 
be true ;" and here, as on many points besides, how much did his method ot 
thinking, (I fear I must add of acting), resemble that of a noble poet more 
recently lost to us. " I am no bigot to infidelity," said Lord Byron, " and 
did not expect that because I doubted the immortality of man, I should be 
charged with denying the existence of a God. It was the comparative in- 
significance of ourselves and our world, when placed in comparison with 
the mighty whole, of which it is an atom, that first led me to imagine that 
our pretensions to immortality might be overrated." I dare not pretend 
to quote the sequel from memory, but the effect was, that Byron, like 
Burns, complained of " the early discipline of Scotch Calvinism," and 
the natural gloom of a melancholy heart, as having between them engen- 
dered " a hypochondriacal disease,'' which occasionally visited and depres- 
sed him through life. In the opposite scale, we are, in justice to Burns, 
to place many pages which breathe the ardour, nay the exultation of faith, 
i and the humble sincerity of Christian hope ; and, as the poet himself has 
warned us, it well befits us 

" At the balance to be mute." 

I Let us avoid, in the name of Religion herself, the fatal error of those who 
would rashly swell the catalogue of the enemies of religion. " A sally ot 
i levity," says once more Dr. Johnson, '' an indecent jest, an unreasonable 
I objection, are sufficient, in the opinion of some men, to efface a name 
j from the lists of Christianity, to exclude a soul from everlasting life. Sue!" 
I men are so watchful to censure, that they have seldom much care to look 
i for favourable interpretations of ambiguities, or to know how soon any 
I step of inadvertency has been expiated by sorrow and retractation, hul let 
! fly their fulminations without mercy or prudence against slight offences or 
casual temerities, against crimes never committed, or immediately repent- 
ed. The zealot should recollect, that he is labouring, by this frequency 
of excommunication, against his own cause, and voluntarily adding strength 
to the enemies of trutli. It must always be the condition of a great part 
of mankind, to reject and embrace tenets upon the authority of those whom 
they think wiser than themselves, and therefore the addition of every name 
to infidelity, in some degree invalidates that argument upon which the re- 
ligion of multitudes is necessarily founded." * In conclusion, let me adopl 

* Life of Sir Thomas Browne. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxvii 

tlie beautiful sentiment of that illustrious moral poet of our own time, 
whose generous defence of Burns will be remembered while the lan- 
guage lasts ; — 

" liCt no mean hope your souls enslave — 
Be independent, generous, brave ; 
Your" Poet " such example gave, 

And such revere, 
But be admonished by his grave, 

And think and fear." * 

It is possible, perhaps for some it may be easy, to imagine a character 
of a much higher cast than that of Burns, developed, too, under circum- 
stances in many respects not unlike those of his history — the character of a 
man of lowly birth, and powerful genius, elevated by that philosophy which 
is alone pure and divine, far above all those annoyances of terrestrial spleen 
and passion, which mixed from the beginning with the workings of his in- 
spiration, and in the end were able to eat deep into the great heart which 
they had long tormented. Such a being would have received, no ques- 
tion, a species of devout reverence, 1 mean when the grave had closed on 
him, to which the warmest admirers of our poet can advance no preten- 
sions for their unfortunate favourite ; but could such a being have delight- 
ed his species — could he even have instructed them like Burns ? Ought 
we not to be thankful for every new variety of form and circumstance, in 
and under which the ennobling energies of true and lofty genius are found 
addressing themselves to the common brethren of the race ? Would we 
have none but Miltons and Cowpers in poetry — but Brownes and South- 
eys in prose ? Alas ! if it were so, to how large a portion of the species 
would all the gifts of all the muses remain for ever a fountain shut up and 
a book sealed ! Were the doctrine of intellectual excommunication to be 
thus expounded and enforced, how small the library that would remain to 
kindle the fancy, to draw out and refine the feelings, to enlighten the head 
by expanding the heart of man ! From Aristophanes to Byron, how broad 
the sweep, how woeful the desolation ! 

In the absence of that vehement sympathy with humanity as it is, its 
sorrows and its joys as they are, we might have had a great man, perhaps 
a great poet, but we could have had no Burns. It is very noble to despise 
the accidents of fortune ; but what moral homily concerning these, could 
have equalled that which Burns's poetry, considered alongside of Burns's 
history, and the history of his fame, presents ! It is very noble to be above 
the allurements of pleasure ; but who preaches so effectually against them, 
as he who sets forth in immortal verse his own intense sympathy with those 
that yield, and in verse and in prose, in action and in passion, in life and 
in death, the dangers and the miseries of yielding ? 

It requires a g^'aver audacity of hypocrisy than falls to the share of most 
men, to declaim against Burns's sensibility to the tangible cares and toils 
of his earthly condition ; there are more who venture on broad denuncia- 
tions of his sympathy with the joys of sense and passion. To these, the 
great moral poet already quoted speaks in the following noble passage — 
and must he speak in vain ? " Permit me," says he, " to remind you, that it 
is the privilege of poetic genius to catch, under certain restrictions of which 
perhaps at the time of its being exerted it is but dimly conscious, a 

* Wordsworth's address to the sons of Burns, on vihitiiig his grave in lu03. 



cxxviif LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

Bpirit of pleasure wherever it oan be found, — in the walks of nature, and 
In the business of men. — The poet, trusting to primary instincts, luxuriates 
among the felicities of love and wine, and is enraptured while he describes 
tlie fairer aspects of war ; nor does he shrink from the company of the pas 
sion of love though immoderate — from convivial pleasure though intempe- 
rate — nor from the presence of war though savage, and recognised as the 
hand-maid of desolation. Frequently and admirably has Burns given way 
to tliese impulses of nature ; both with reference to himself, and in describ- 
ing the condition of others. Who, but some impenetrable dunce or narrow- 
minded puritant in works of art, ever read without delight the picture 
which he has drawn of the convivial exaltation of the rustic adventurer, 
Tam o' Shanter ? The poet fears not to tell the reader in the outset, that 
his hero was a desperate and sottish drunkard, whose excesses were fre- 
quent as his opportunities. This reprobate sits down to his cups, while 
the storm is roaring, and heaven and earth are in confusion ; — the night is 
driven on by song and tumultuous noise — laughter and jest thicken as the 
beverage improves upon the palate — conjugal fidelity archly bends to the 
service of general benevolence — selfishness is not absent, but wearing the 
mask of social cordiality — and, while these various elements of humanity 
are blended into one proud and happy composition of elated spirits, the 
anger of the tempest without doors only heightens and sets off the enjoy 
ment within. — I pity him who cannot perceive that, in all this, though 
there was no moral purpose, there is a moral effect. 

" Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious." 

** What a lesson do these words convey of charitable indulgence for the 
vicious habits of the principal actor in this scene, and of those who resem- 
ble him ! — Men who to the rigidly virtuous are objects almost of loath- 
I ing, and whom therefore they cannot serve ! The poet, penetrating the 
I unsightly and disgusting surfaces of things, has unveiled with exquisite 
skill the finer lies of imagination and feeling, that often bind these beings 
to practices productive of much unhappiness to themselves, and to those 
whom it is their duty to cherish ; — and, as far as he puts the reader into 
possession of this intelligent sympathy, he qualifies him for exercising a 
salutary influence over the minds of those who are thus deplorably de- 
ceived." * 

That some men in every age will comfort themselves in the practice of 
certain vices, by reference to particular passages both in the history and 
in the poetry of Burns, there is all reason to fear ; but surely the general 
influence of both is calculated, and has been found, to produce far different 
effects. The universal popularity which his writings liave all along enjoj^- 
ed among one of the most virtuous of nations, is of itself, as it would seem, 
a decisive circumstance. Search Scotland over, from the Pentland to tlie 
Solway, and there is not a cottage hut so pooj- rmd wretched as to be with- 
out its Bible ; and Iwrdly one that, on the same shelf, and next to it, does 
not possess a Burns. Have the people degenerated since their adoption 
of this new manual ? Has their attachment to the Book of Books declined ? 
Are their hearts less firmly bound, than were their fathers', to the old faith 

and the old virtues ? I believe, he that knows the most of the country will 

I 

! ■ VV'ordsworth's Letter to uray, p. 24. 

I 



i ! 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS, cxxix 

be the readiest to answer all these questions, as every lover of genius and 
virtue would desire to hear them answered. 

On one point there can be no controversy ; the poetry of Burns has had 
most powerful influence/ in reviving and strengthening the national feelings 
of his countrymen. Amidst penury and labour, his youth fed on the old 
minstrelsy and traditional glories of his nation, and his genius divined, 
that what he felt so deeply must belong to a spirit that might lie smothered 
around him, but could not be extinguished. The political circumstances 
of Scotland were, and had been, such as to starve the flame of patriotism ; | j 
the popular literature had striven, and not in vain, to make itself English ; 
and, above all, a new and a cold system of speculative philosophy had be 
gun to spread widely among us. A peasant appeared, and set himself to 
check the creeping pestilence of this indifference. Whatever genius has 
since then been devoted to the illustration of the national manners, and 
sustaining thereby of the national feelings of the people, there can be no 
doubt that Burns will ever be remembered as the founder, and, alas ! in 
his own person as the martyr, of this reformation. 

That what is now-a-days called, by solitary eminence, the wealth of the 
nation, had been on the increase ever since our incorporation with a greater 
and wealthier state — nay, that the laws had been improving, and, above all, 
the administration of the laws, it would be mere bigotry to dispute. It 
may also be conceded easily, that the national mind had been rapidly clear- 
ing itself of many injurious prejudices — that the people, as a people, had 
been gradually and surely advancing in knowledge and wisdom, as well as 
in wealth and security. But all this good had not been accomplished with- 
out rude work. If the improvement were valuable, .it had been purchased | 
dearly. " The spring fire," Allan Cu-nningham says beautifully somewhere, ; 
" which destroys the furze, makes an end also of the nests of a thousand 
song-birds; and he who goes a-trouting with lime leaves little of life in the ■ 
stream." We were getting fast ashamed of many precious and beautiful i 
things, only for that they were old and our own, i 

It has already been remarked, how even Smollett, who began v/ith a j 
national tragedy, and one of the noblest of national lyrics, never dared to j 
make use of the dialect of his own country; and how iMoore, another most j 
enthusiastic Scotsman, followed in this respect, as in others, the example | 
of Smollett, and over and over again counselled Burns to do the like. But i 
a still more striking sign of the times is to be found in the style adopted I 
by both of these novelists, especially the great master of the art, in their j 
representations of the manners and characters of their own countrymen. | 
In Humphry Clinker, the last and best of Smollett's tales, there are some ' 
traits of abetter kind — but, taking his works as a whole, the impression it I 
conveys is certainly a painful, a disgusting one. The Scotsmen of these { 
authors, are the Jockeys and Archies of farce — 

Time out of mind (.he Southrons' mirthmakers — ! 

the best of them grotesque combinations of simplicity and hypocrisy, pride 
and meanness. When such men, high-spirited Scottish gentlemen, posses- 
sed of learning and talents, and, one of them at least, of splendid genius, 
felt, or fancied, the necessity of making such submissions to the prejudices oi 
the dominant nation, and did so without exciting a murmur among their own 
countrymen, we may form some notion of the boldness of Burns's experi- 
ment; and on contrasting the state of things then with what is before us 



cxxx LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

now, it will cost no effort to appreciate the nature and consequences of the 
victory in which our poet led the way, by achievements never in their kind 
to be sur| assed. " Burns," says Mr. Campbell, " has given the elixir vitae 
to his dialect ;" — he gave it to more than his dialect. " He was," says a 
writer, in whose language a brother poet will be recognised — '^ he was in 
many respects born at a happy time ; happy for a man of genius like him, 
but fatal and hopeless to the more common mind. A whole world of life 
lay before Burns, whose inmost recesses, and darkest nooks, and sunniest 
eminences, he had famil arly trodden from his childhood. All that world 
he felt could be made his own. No conqueror had overrun its fertile pro- 
I I vinces, and it was for him to be crowned supreme over all the 

I ' Lyric singers of that high-soul'd land.' 

I The crown that he has won can never be removed from his head. Much 
is yet left for other poets, even among that life where his spirit delighted 
I to work ; but he has built nionuments on all the high places, and they who 
follow can only hope to leave behind them some far humbler memorials." * 
Dr. Currie says, that " \i fiction be the soul of poetry, as some assert. 
Burns can have small pretensions to the name of poet." The success of 
Burns, the influence of his verse, would alone be enough to overturn all 
the systems of a thousand definers ; but the Doctor has obviously taken 
fiction in far too limited a sense. There are indeed but few of Burns's 
pieces in which he is found creating beings and circumstances, both alike 
alien from his own person and experience, and then by the power of ima- 
gination, divining and expressing what forms life and passion would assume 
with, and under these. — But there are some ; there is quite enough to sa- 
tisfy every reader of Halloween^ the Jolly Beggars, and Tarn 6 Shanter, 
[to say nothing of various particular songs, such as Bruce s Address, Mac- 
phersojis Lament, ^c), that Burns, if he pleased, might have been as large- 
ly and as successfully an inventor in this way, as he is in another walk, 
perhaps not so inferior to this as many people may have accustomed them- 
selves to believe ; in the art, namely, of recombining and new-combining, 
i varying, embellishing, and fixing and transmitting the elements of a most 
picturesque experience, and most vivid feelings. 

Lord Byron, in his letter on Pope, treats with high and just contempt 
the laborious trifling which has been expended on distinguishing by air- 
drawn lines and technical slang-words, the elements and materials of poe- 
tical exertion ; and, among other things, expresses his scorn of the attempts 
that have been made to class Burns among minor poets, merely because he 
has put forth few large pieces, and still fewer of what is called the purely 
imaghiative character. Fight who will about words and forms, " Burns's 
rank," says he, " is in the first class of his art ;" and, I believe, the world 
at large are now-a-days well prepared to prefer a line from such a pen as 
Byron's on any such subject as this, to the most luculent dissertation that 
ever perplexed the brains of writer and of reader. Sentio, ergo sum, says 
the metaphysician ; the critic may safely parody the saying, and assert 
that that is poetry of the highest order, which exer-ts influence of the most 
powerful order on the hearts and minds of mankind. 

Burns has been appreciated duly, and he has had the fortune to be prais- 
ed eloquently, by almost every poet who has come after him. To accu- 

Blackwood's Magazine, February 1817. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNb. cxxxi 

mulate all that has been said of him, even by men like himself, of the first 

order, would fill a volume — and a noble monument, no question, that vo- j 

lume would be — the noblest, except what he has left us in his own im- j 

mortal verses, which — were some dross removed, and the rest arranged in ! 

a chronological order — would I believe form, to the intelligent, a more per- ' 

feet and vivid history of his life than will ever be composed out of all the ' 

materials in the world besides. i 

" The impression of his genius," says Campbell, " is deep and univer- | 

sal ; and viewing him merely as a poet, there is scarcely another regret I 

connected with his name, than that his productions, with all their merit, I 

fall short of the talents which he possessed. That he never attempted any i 

great work of fiction, may be partly traced to the cast of his genius, and i 

partly to his circumstances, and defective education. His poetical tempe- ■ 

rament was that of fitful transports, rather than steady inspiration. What- I 

ever he might have written, was likely to have been fraught with passion, i 

There is always enough of interest in life to cherish the feelings of genius ; j 

but it requires knowledge to enlarge and enrich the imagination. Of that | 

knowledge which unrolls the diversities of human manners, adventures, ! 

and characters, to a poet's study, he could have no great share ; although | 

he stamped the little treasure which he possessed in the mintage of sove- | 

reign genius." * j 

" Notwithstanding," says Sir Walter Scott, " the spirit of many of his I 

lyrics, and the exquisite sweetness and simplicity of others, we cannot but j 

deeply regret that so much of his time and talents was frittered away in | 

compiling and composing for musical collections. There is s efficient evi- ! 

dence, that even the genius of Burns could not support him in the monoton- j 

ous task of writing love verses, on heaving bosoms and sparkling eyes, and | 

twisting them into such rhythmical forms as might suit the capricious evo- i 

lutions of Scotch reels and strathspeys. Besides, this constant waste of I 

his pov/er and fancy in small and insignificant compositions, must neces- j 

sarily have had no little effect in deterring him from undertaking any grave I 

or important task. Let no one suppose that we undervalue the songs of | 

Burns. When his soul was intent on suiting a favourite air to words hu- | 

morous or tender, as the subject demanded, no poet of our tongue ever l 

displayed higher skill in marrying melody to immortal verse. But the | 

writing of a series of songs for large musical collections, degenerated into j 

a slavish labour which no talents could support, led to negligence, and, 1 
above all, diverted the poet from his grand plan of dramatic composition. 
To produce a work of this kind, neither, perhaps, a regular tragedy nor 
comedy, but something partaking of the nature of both, seems to have been 
long the cherished wish of Burns. He had even fixed on the subject, 
which was an adventure in low life, said to have happened to Robert Bruce, 
while wandering in danger and disguise, after being defeated by the English. 
The Scottish dialect would have rendered such a piece totally unfit for the 
stage ; but those who recollect the masculine and lofty tone of martial spirit 
which glows in the poem of Bannockburn, will sigh to think what the cha- 
racter of the gallant Bruce might have proved under the hand of Burns. It 
would undoubtedly have wanted that tinge of chivalrous feehng which the 
manners of the age, no less than the disposition of the monarch, demanded , 
but this deficiency would have been more than supplied by a bard who 
could have drawn from his own perceptions, the unbending energy of « 

• Soecimens. vol. vii. 241. 



cxxxii LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

hero sustaining the desertion of friends, the persecution of enemies, and 
the utmost malice of disastrous fortune. The scene, too, being partly laid 
in humble life, admitted that display of broad humour and exquisite pathos, 
with which he could, interchangeably and at pleasure, adorn his cottage 
views. Nor was the assemblage of familiar sentiments incompatible in 
Burns, with those of the most exalted dignity. In the ininlitable tale oi 
7am o Shaiiter, he has left us sufficient evidence of his abilities to com- 
bine the ludicrous with the awful, and even the horrible. No poet, with 
•:he exception of Shakspeare, ever possessed the power of exciting the most 
varied and discordant emotions with such rapid transitions. His humour- 
ous description of death in the poem on Dr. Hornbook borders on the ter- 
rific, and the witches' dance in the kirk of Alloa is at once ludicrous and 
horrible. Deeply must we then regret those avocations which diverted a 
fancy so varied and so vigorous, joined with language and expression suited 
to all its changes, from leaving a more substantial monument to his own 
fame, and to the honour of his country." 

The cantata of the Jolly Beggars, which was not printed at all until some 
time after the poet's death, and has not been included in the editions of his 
works until within these ^ew years, cannot be considered as it deserves, with- 
out strongly heightening our regret that Burns never lived to execute his 
meditated drama. That extraordinary sketch, coupled with his later ly- 
rics in a higher vein, is enough to show that in him we had a master capa- 
ble of placing the musical drama on a level with the loftiest of our classi- 
cal forms. Beggars Bush, and Beggar s Opera, sink into tameness in the 
comparison ; and indeed, without profanity to the name of Shakspeare, it 
may be said, that out of such materials, even his genius could hardly have 
constructed a piece in which imagination could have more splendidly pre- 
dominated over the outward shows of things — in which the sympathy- 
awakening power of poetry could have been displayed more triumphantly 
under circumstances of the greatest difficulty. — That remarkable perform- 
ance, by the way, was an early production of the Mauchline period. I 
know nothing but the Tarn o' Shunter that is calculated to convey so high 
an impression of what Burns might have done. 

As to Burns's want of education and knowledge, Mr. Campbell may not 
have considered, but he must admit, that whatever Burns's opportunities 
had been at the time when he produced his first poems, such a man as he 
was not likely to be a hard reader, (which he certainly was), and a constant 
observer of men and manners, in a much wider circle of society than al- 
most any other great poet has ever moved in, from three and- twenty to 
eight-and-thlrty, without having thoroughly removed any pretext for au- 
guring unfavourably on that score, of what he might have been expected 
to produce in the more elaborate departments of his art, had his life been 
spared to the usual limits of humanity. In another way, however, I can- 
not help suspecting that Burns's enlarged knowledge, both of men and books, 
produced an unfavourable effect, rather than otherwise, on the exertions, 
such as they were, of his later years. His generous spirit was open to the 
impression of every kind of excellence ; his lively imagination, bending its 
own vigour to whatever it touched, made him admire even what other peo- 
ple try to read in vain ; and after travelling, as he did, over the general 
surface of our literature, he appears to have been somewhat startled at the 
consideration of what he himself had, in comparative ignorance, adventur- 
3d, and to have been more intimidated than encouraged by the retrospect 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. cxxxlii 

In most of the new departments in which he made some trial of his strength, 
(such, for example, as the moral epistle in Pope's vein, the heroic satire, 
&rc.), he appears to have soon lost heart, and paused. There is indeed one 
magnificent exception in Tarn o Shanter — a piece which no one can under- 
stand without believing, that had Burns pursued that walk, and poured out 
his stores of traditionary lore, embellished with his extraordinary powers 
of description of all kinds, we might have had from his hand a series of na- 
tional tales, uniting the quaint simplicity, sly humour, and irresistible pathos 
0^ another Chaucer, with the strong and graceful versification, and mascu- 
line wit and sense of another Dryden. 

This was a sort of feeling that must have in time subsided. — But let us 
not waste words in regretting what might have been, where so much is.. — 
Burns, short and painful as were his years, has left behind him a volume 
in which there is inspiration for every fancy, and music for every mood ; 
which lives, and will live in strength and vigour — " to soothe," as a gene- 
rous lover of genius has said — " the sorrows of how many a lover, to in- 
flame the patriotism of how many a soldier, to fan the fires of how many a 
genius, to disperse the gloom of solitude, appease the agonies of pain, en- 
courage virtue, and show vice its ugliness;"* — a volume, in which, centuries 
hence, as now, wherever a Scotsman may wander, he will find the dearest 
ccnsolation of his exile. — Already has 

Glory without end 



Scattered the clouds away ; and on that name attend 
The tears and praises of all time." -j- 



The mortal remains of the poet rest in Dumfries churchyard. For nine- 
teen years they were covered by the plain and humble tombstone placed 
over them by his widow, bearing the inscription simply of his name. But 
a splendid mausoleum having been erected hy public subscription on the 
most elevated site which the churchyard presented, the remains were so- 
lemnly transferred thither on the 8th June 1815; the original tombstone 
having been sunk under the bottom of the mausoleum. This shrine of the 
poet is annually visited by many pilgrims. The inscription it bears is given 
below. Another splendid monumental edifice has also been erected to 
his memory on a commanding situation at the foot of the Carrick hills in 
Ayrshire, in the immediate vicinity of the old cottage where the poet was 
born ; and such is the unceasing, nay daily increasing veneration of his 
admiring countrymen, that a third one, of singular beauty of design, is 
now in progress, upon a striking projection of that most picturesque emi- 
nence — the Calton Hill of Edinburgh — The cut annexed to p. cxxxvi. 
exhibits a view, necessarily but an imperfect one, of the monument la«» 
mentioned. 



See the Censura Literaria of Sir Egerton Brydges, vol. ii. p. 55 
+ Lord Byron's Child Harold, Canto iv. 36. 



cxxxiv LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



INSCRIPTION UPON THE POET'S MONUMENT IN 
DUMFRIES CHURCHYARD. 



IN AETERNUM HONOREM 

I ROBERTI BURNS 

I POETARUM CALEDONIAE SUI AEVI LONGE PRINCIPIS 

[ CUJUS CARMTNA EXIMIA PATRIO SERMONE SCRTPTA 

ANIMI MAGIS ARDENTIS VIQUC INGENII 

QUAM ARTE VEL CULTU CONSPICUA 

TACETIIS JUCUNDIl'ATE LEPORE AFFLUENTIA 

OMNIBUS LITTER ARUM CULTORIBUS SATIS NOTA 

GIVES SUI NECNON PLERIQUE OMNES 

MUSARUM AMANTISSIMI MEMORIAMQUK VIM 

ARTE POeTICA TAM PRAECLARI FOVENTK8 

HOC MAUSOLEUM 

SUPER RELIQUIAS POETAE MORTALE8 

EXTRUENDUM CURAVERE 

PRIMUM HUJUS AEDIFICU LAPIDEM 

GULIELMUS MILLER ARMIGER 

REIPUBLICAE ARCHITECTONICAE APUD SCOTOS 

IN REGIONE AUSTRALI CURIO MAXIMUS PROVINCIALIS 

GEORGIO TERTIO REGNANTE 

GEORGIO WALLIARUM PRINCIPE 

SUMMAM IMPERII PRO PATRE TENENTE 

JOSEPHO GASS ARMIGERO DUMFRISIAE PRAEFECTO 

THOMA F. HUNT LONDINENSI ARCHITECTO 

POSUIT 

NONIS JUNIIS ANNO LUCIS VMDCCCXV 

SALUTIS HUMANAE MDOCCXV. 



ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. 



cxxxv 



The many poetical effusions the Peot's death gave rise to, presents a I 
wide field for selection. — The elegiac verses by Mr. Roscoe of Liverpool 
have been preferred, as the most fitting sequel to his eventful life ! 



ON 



THE DEATH OF BURNS. 



Rear high thy bleak majestic hills, 

Thy shelter'd valleys proudly spread, 
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, 

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red ; 
But, ah ! what poet now shall tread 

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, 
Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead. 

That ever breath'd the soothing strain ! 

As green thy towering pines may grow. 

As clear thy streams may speed along. 
As bright thy summer suns may glow. 

As gaily charm thy feathery throng ; 
But now, unheeded is the song, 

And dull and lifeless all around. 
For his wild harp lies all unstrung, 

And cold the hand that waked its sound. 

What though thy vigorous offspring rise, 

In arts, in arms, thy sons excel ; 
Tho' beauty in thy daughters' eyes. 

And healih in every feature dwell ? 
Yet who shall now tlieir praises tell. 

In strains impassioned, fond, and free, 
Since he no more the song shall swell 

To love, and liberty, and thee ? 

With step-dame eye and frown severe 

His hapless youth why didst thou view ? 
For all thy joys to him vrere dear. 

And all his vows to thee were due ; 
Nor greater bliss his bosom knew,, 

In opening youth's delightful prime. 
Than when thy favouring ear he drew 

To listen to his chaunted rhyme. 

Thy lonely wastes and frowning skies 

I o him were all with rapture fraugnt ; 
He heard with joy the tempest rise 

That waked him to sublimer thought ; 
And oft thy winding dells he sought, [fume. 

Where wild-flowers pour'd their rathe per- 
And with sincere devotion brought 

To thee the summei's earliest bloom. 



But ah ! no fond maternal smile 

His unprotected youth en joy 'd, 
His limbs inur'd to early toil. 

His days with early hardships tried} 
And more to mark the gloomy void, 

And bid him feel his misery, 
Before his infant eyes would glide 

Day-dreams of immortalitv. 

' -"t, not by cold neglect depress'd. 

With sinewy arm he turn'd the soil, 
>.-vnk with the evening sun to rest. 

And met at morn his earliest smile. 
Vaked by his rustic pipe, meanwhile 

The powers of fancy came along, 
And fooih'd his lengtheneti hours of toil, 

With native wit and sprightly song. 

— Ah ! days of bliss, too swiftly fled, 

AVhen vigorous health from labour springs 
And bland contentment smooths the bed, 

And sleep his ready opiate brings ; 
And hovering round on airy wings 

Float the light forms of young desire, 
That of unutterable things 

The soft and shadowy hope inspire. 

Now spells of mightier power prepare, 

Bid brighter phantoms round him dance ; 
Let Flattery spread her viewless snare. 

And Fame attract his vagrant glance; 
Let sprightly Pleasure too advance, 

Unveii'd her eyes, anclasp'd her zone. 
Till, lost in love's delirious trance. 

He scorns the joys his youth has known. 

Let Friendship pour her brightest blaze. 

Expanding all the bloom of soul ; 
And Mirth concentre all her rays. 

And point them from the sparkling bowi 
And let the careless moments roU 

In social pleasure unconfined. 
And confidence that spurns control 

Unlock the inmost springs of mind : 



cxxxv 



ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. 



And lead his steps those bowers among, 

^\^lere elegance with splendour vies, 
Or Science bids her favour'd throng 

To more refined sensations rise : 
Peyond the peasant's humbler joys. 

And freed from each laborious strife. 
There let him learn the bliss to prize 

That waits the sons of polish'd life. 

Then whilst his throbbing veins beat high 

With every impulse of delight, 
Dash from his lips the cup of joy, 

And shroud the scene in shades of night ; 
And let Despair, witn wizard light. 

Disclose the yawning gulf below, 
And pour incessant on his sight 

Her spectred ills and shapes of woe : 

And show beneath a cheerless shed, 

With sorrowing heart and streaming eyes, 

In silent grief where droops her head, 
The partner of his early joys ; 



And let his infants' tender cries 
His fond parental succour claim; 

And bid him hear in agonies 
A husband's and a father's name. 

'Tis done, the powerful charm succeeds , 

His high reluctant spirit bends ; 
In bitterness of soul he bleeds. 

Nor longer with his fate contends. 
An idiot lau^h the welkin rends 

As genius thus degraded lies ; 
Till pitying Heaven the veil extends 

That shrouds the Poet's ardent eyes. 

— Rear higli thy bleak majestic hills, 

Thy shelter'd valleys proudly spread, 
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, 

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red j 
But never more shall poet tread 

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, 
Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead, 

That ever breathed the soothing straio. 




r~_ 



CHARACTER 



BURNS AND HIS WRITINGS^ 



MRS. RIDDELL OF GLENRIDDELL.* 



The attention of the public seems to be much occupied at present with 
i!i» loss it has recently sustained in the death of the Caledonian poet, Ro- 
bert Burns ; a loss calculated to be severely felt throughout the literary 
world, as well as lamented in the narrower sphere of private friendship. It 
was not therefore probable that such an event should be long unattended 
with the accustomed profusion of posthumous anecdotes and memoirs which 
are usually circulated immediately after the death of every rare and cele- 
brated personage : I had however conceived no intention of appropriating 
to myself the privilege of criticising Burns's writings and character, or of 
anticipating on the province of a biographer. 

Conscious indeed of my own inability to do justice to such a subject, I 
should have continued wholly silent, had misrepresentation and calumny 
been less industrious ; but a regard to truth, no less than affection for the 
memory of a friend, must now justify my offering to the public a few at 
least of those observations which an intimate acquaintance with Burns, and 
the frequent opportunities I have had of observing equally his happy qua- 
lities and his failings for several years past, have enabled me to commu- 
nicate. 

It will actually be an injustice done to Burns's character, not only by 
future generations and foreign countries, but even by his native Scotlancl, 
and perhaps a number of his contemporaries, that he is generally talked of, 
and considered, with reference to his poetical talents ohIij : for the fact is, 
even allowing his great and original genius its due tribute of admiration, 
that poetry (I appeal to all who have had the advantage of being person 
ally acquainted with him) was actually not his forfe. Many others, per- 
haps, may have ascended to prouder heights in the region of Parnassus, 
but none certainly ever outshone Burns in the charms — the sorcery, I 

■• Mrs. Riddell knew the poet well ; slie had every opportunity for observation of what he said and did, aa 
well as of what was said of him and done towards him. Her beautifully written ^/o£r,— friendly yet candid, 
—was well receivsd and generally circulated at the time. It has been inserted by Dr. Currie in his several 
editions, as interesting from its elegance, and authoritative from the writer's accurate information ; we have 
therefore most readily given it a place hete. 



cxxxviii CHARACTER OF BURNS AND HIS WRITINGS. 

would almost call it, of fascinating conversation, the spontaneous elo- 
quence of social argument, or the unstudied poignancy of bri.liant repar- 
tee ; nor was any man, I believe, ever gifted with a larger portion of the 
* vivida vis animi' His personal endowments were perfectly correspon- 
dent to the qualifications of his mind : his form was manly ; his action, 
energy itself; devoid in great measure perhaps of those graces, of that 
polish, acquired only in the refinement of societies where in early life he 
could have no opportunities of mixing ; but where, such was the irresist- 
ible power of attraction that encircled hiui, though his appearance and 
manners were always peculiar, he never failed to delight and to excel. 
His figure seemed to bear testimony to his earlier destination and employ- 
ments. It seemed rather moulded by nature for the rough exercises of 
Agriculture, than the gentler cultivation of the Belles Lettres. His fea- 
tures were stamped with the hardy character of independence, and the 
firmness of conscious, though not arrogant, pre-eminence ; the animated 
expressions of countenance were almost peculiar to himself; the rapid 
lightnings of his eye were always the harbingers of some fllash of genius, 
whether they darted the fiery glances of insulted and indignant superiori- 
ty, or beamed with the impassioned sentiment of fervent and impetuous 
affections. His voice alone could improve upon the magic of his eye : so- 
norous, replete with the finest modulations, it alternately captivated the 
ear with the melody of poetic numbers, the perspicuity of nervous reason- 
ing, or the ardent sallies of enthusiastic patriotism, The keenness of sa- 
tire was, I am almost at a loss whether to say, his forte or his foible ; for 
though nature had endowed him with a portion of the most pointed excellence 
in that dangerous talent, he suffered it too often to be the vehicle of personal, 
and sometimes unfounded, animosities. It was not always that sportiveness 
of humour, that '• unwary pleasantry," which Sterne has depicted with touches 
so conciliatory ; but the darts of ridicule were frequently directed as the ca- 
price of the instant suggested, or as the altercations of parties and of persons 
happened to kindle the restlessness of his spirit into interest or aversion. 
This, however, was not invariably the case ; his wit, (which is no unusual mat- 
ter indeed), had always the start of his judgment, and would lead him into 
the indulgence of raillery uniformly acute, but often unaccompanied with 
the least desire to wound. The suppression of an arch and full-pointed bon 
mot, from a dread of offending its object, the sage of Zurich very properly 
classes as a virtue only to be sought for in the Calendar of Saints ; if so, 
Burns must not be too severely dealt with for being rather deficient in it. 
He paid for his mischievous wit as dearly as any one could do. *' 'Twas no 
extravagant arithmetic," to say of him, as was said of Yorick, that *' for 
every ten jokes he got a hundred enemies ;" but much allowance will be 
made by a candid mind for the splenetic warmth of a spirit whom " dis- 
tress had spited with the world," and which, unbounded in its intellectual 
sallies and pursuits, continually experienced the curbs imposed by the way- 
wardness of his fortune. The vivacity of his wishes and temper wa« indeed 
checked by almost habitual disappointments, which sat heavy on a heart 
that acknowledged the ruling passion of independence, without having ever 
been placed beyond the grasp of penury. His soul was never languid or 
inactive, and his genius was extinguished only with the last spark of re- 
treating life. His passions rendered him, according as they disclosed them- 
selves in affection or antipathy, an object of enthusiastic attachment, or oi 
decided enmity : for he possessed none of that negative insipidity oi r ha* 



CHARACTER OF BURNS AND HIS WRITINGS. cxxxb 

racter, whose love might be regarded with indiiference, or whose resent- 
ment could be considered with contempt. In this, it should seem, the 
temper of his associates took the tincture from his own ; for he acknowledg- 
ed in the universe but two classes of objects, those of adoration the most 
fervent, or of aversion the most uncontrolable ; and it has been frequently 
a reproach to him, that, unsusceptible of indifference, often hating, when 
he ought only to have despised, he alternately opened his heart and poured 
forth the treasures of his understanding to such as were incapable of ap- 
preciating the homage ; and elevated to the privileges of an adversary, some 
who were unqualified in all respects for the honour of a contest so distin- 
guished. 

It is said that the celebrated Dr. Johnson professed to " love a good 
nater" — a temperament that would have singularly adapted him to cherish 
a prepossession in favour of our bard, who perhaps fell but little short even 
of the surly Doctor in this qualification, as long as the disposition to ill-will 
continued ; but the warmth of his passions was fortunately corrected by 
their versatilit3^ He was seldom, indeed never, implacable in his resent- 
ments, and sometimes, it has been alleged, not inviolably faithful in his 
engagements of friendship. Much indeed has been said about his incon- 
stancy and caprice ; but 1 am inclined to believe, that they originated less 
in a levity of sentiment, than from an extreme impetuosity of feeling, 
which rendered him prompt to take umbrage ; and his sensations of pique, 
where he fancied he had discovered the traces of neglect, scorn, or unkind- 
ness, took their measure of asperity from the overflowings of the opposite 
sentiment which preceded them, and which seldom failed to regain its as- 
cendancy in his bosom on the return of calmer reflection. He was candid 
and manly in the avowal of his errors, and his avowal was a reparation. 
His native j^erte' never forsaking him for a moment, the value of a frank 
acknowledgment was enhanced tenfold towards a generous mind, from its 
never being attended with servility. His mind, organized only for the 
stronger and more acute operations of the passions, was impracticable to 
the efforts of superciliousness that would have depressed it into humility, 
and equally superior to the encroachments of venal suggestions that might 
have led him into the mazes of hypocrisy. 

It has been observed, that he was far from averse to the incense ot 
flattery, and could receive it tempered with less delicacy than might 
have been expected, as he seldom transgressed extravagantly in that 
way himself; where he paid a compliment, it might indeed claim the 
power of intoxication, as approbation from him was always an honest tri- 
bute from the warmth and sincerity of his heart. It has been sometimes 
represented, by those who it should seem had a view to depreciate, though 
they could not hope wholly to obscure that native brilliancy, which the 
powers of this extraordinary man had invariably bestowed on every thing 
that came from his hps or pen, that the history of the Ayrshire ploughboy 
was an ingenious fiction, fabricated for the purposes of obtaining the inte- 
rests of the great, and enhancing the merits of what in reality required no 
foil. The Cotter's Saturday Night, Tarn o' Shanter, and the Mountain 
Daisy, besides a number of later productions, where the maturity of his 
genius will be readily traced, and which will be given to the pubHc as 
soon as his friends have collected and arranged them, speak sufficiently for 
themselves ; and had they fallen from a hand more dignified in the ranks 
of society than that of a peasant, they had perhaps bestowed as unusual a 



cxI CHARACTER OF BURNS AND HIS WRITINGS. 

grace there, as even in the humbler shade of rustic inspiration from whence 
they really sprung. 

To the obscure scene of Burns's education, and to the laborious, though 
honourable station of rural industry, in which his parentage enrolled him, 
almost every inhabitant of the south of Scotland can give testimony. His 
only surviving brother, Gilbert Burns, now guides the ploughshare of his 
forefathers in Ayrshire, at a farm near Mauchline ; * and our poet's eldest 
son (a lad of nine years of age, whose early dispositions already prove him 
to be in some measure the inheritor of his father's talents as well as indi- 
gence) has been destined by his family to the humble employments of the 
loom, f 

That Burns had received no classical education, and was acquainted 
with the Greek and Roman authors only through the medium of transla- 
tions, is a fact of which all who were in the habits of conversing with him, 
might readily be convinced. I have indeed i<e.dom observed him to be at 
a loss in conversation, unless where the dead languages and their writers 
have been the subjects of discussion. When I have pressed him to tell me 
why he never applied himself to acquire the Latin, in particular, a lan- 
guage which his happy memory would have so soon enabled him to be rnas- 
ter of, he used only to reply with a smile, that he had already learnt all the 
Latin he desired to know, and that was Omnia vincit amor ; a sentence 
that, from his writings and most favourite pursuits, it should undoubtedly 
seem that he was most thoroughly versed in ; but I really believe his clas- 
sic erudition extended little, if any, farther. 

The penchant Burns had uniformly acknowledged for the festive plea- 
sures of the table, and towards the fairer and softer objects of nature's 
creation, has been the rallying point from whence the attacks of his cen- 
sors have been uniformly directed ; and to these, it must be confessed, he 
shewed himself no stoic. His poetical pieces blend with alternate happi- 
ness of description, the frolic spirit of the flowing bowl, or melt the heart 
to the tender and impassioned sentiments in which beauty always taught 
him to pour forth his own. But who would wish to reprove the feelings he 
has consecrated with such lively touches of nature ? And where is the 
rugged moralist who will persuade us so far to " chill the genial current 
of the soul," as to regret that Ovid ever celebrated his Corinna, or that 
Anacreon sung beneath his vine ? 

1 will not however undertake to be the apologist of the irregularities 

even of a man of genius, though I believe it is as certain that genius never 

was free from irregularities, as that their absolution may in a great mea- 

j sure be justly claimed, since it is perfectly evident that the world had cor- 

I tinned very stationary in its intellectual acquirements, had it never given 

i birth to any but men of plain sense. Evenness of conduct, and a due ve- 

I gard to the decorums of the world, have been so rarely seen to move hand 

in hand with genius, that some have gone as far as to say, though there I 

cannot wholly acquiesce, that they are even incompatible ; besides, the 

frailties that cast their shade over the splendour of superior merit, are 

I more conspicuously glaring than where they are the attendants of mere medi- 

i • The fate of this worthy man is noticed at p. 302, where will be found a deserved tribute 

j to his memory, (for he, too, alas I is gone), from tlie pen of a friend. 

] -|- The plan of breeding the poet's eldest son a manufacturer was given up. He has been 

placed in one of the public offices (the Stamp-Office) in London, where he continues to fill 
respectably a respectable situation. His striking likeness to the poet has be^n often re- 
marked 



CHARACTER OF BURNS AND HIS WRITINGS. cxli 

acrity. It is only on the gem we are disturbed to see the dust ; the pebble 
may be soiled, and we never regard it. The eccentric intuitions of genius 
too often yield the soul to the wild effervescence of desires, always un- 
bounded, and sometimes equally dangerous to the repose of others as fatal 
to its own. No wonder then if virtue herself be sometimes lost in the blaze 
of kindling animation, or that the calm monitions of reason are not inva- 
riably found sufficient to fetter an imaginatio? which scorns the narrow 
limits and restrictions that would chain it to the level of ordinary minds. 
The child of nature, the child of sensibility, unschooled in the rigid pre- 
cepts of philosophy, too often unable to control the passions which proved 
a source of frequent errors and misfortunes to him, Burrs made his own 
artless apology in language more impressive than all the argumentatory 
vindications in the world could do, in one of his own poems, where he de- 
lineates the gradual expansion of his mind to the lessons of the " tutelary 
muse," who concludes an address to her pupil, almost unique for simplicity 
and beautiful poetry, with these lines : 

" I saw thy pulse's madd'ning play 
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way j 
Misled by Fancy's meteor ray, 

By passion driven ; 
But yet the light that led astray. 
Was light from heaven /" * 

I have already transgressed beyond the bounds I haa proposed to my- 
self, on first committing this sketch to paper, which comprehends what at 
least I have been led to deem the leading features of Burns's mind and cha- 
racter : a literary critique 1 do not aim at ; mine is wholly fulfilled, if in 
these pages I have been able to delineate any of those strong traits that 
distinguished him, — of those talents which raised him from the plough, 
where he passed the bleak morning of his life, weaving his rude wreaths 
of poesy with the wild field-flowers that sprang around his cottage, to that 
enviable eminence of literary tiame, where Scotland will long cherish his 
memory with delight and gratitude ; and proudly remember, that beneath 
her cold sky a genius was ripened, without care or culture, that would have 
done honour to climes more favourable to those luxuriances — that warmth 
of colouring and fancy in which he so eminently excelled. 

From several paragraphs I have noticed in the public.prints, ever since 
the idea of sending this sketch to some one of them was formed, I find pri- 
vate animosities have not yet subsided, and that envy has not yet exhaust- 
ed all her shafts. I still trust, however, that honest fame will be perma- 
nently affixed to Burns's character, which I think it will be found he has 
merited by the candid and impartial among his coantryraen. And where 
a recollection of the imprudences that sullied his brighter qualifications in- 
terpose, let the imperfection of all human excellence be remembered at 
the same time, leaving those inconsistencies, which alternately exalted his 
nature into the seraph, and sunk it again into the man, to the tribuna 
which alone can investigate the labyrinths of the human heart — 

" Where they alike in trembling hope repose^ 
— The bosom of his father and his Goi." 

Gray's Eleot. 
Annandale, August 7, 1796. 

• Vide the Vision— Duan 2d. 



TO THE 



NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN 



OF THE 



CALEDONIAN HUNT, 



My Lords and Gentlemen, 

A Scottish Bard, proud of the name, and whose highest ambition is tc 
sing in his Country's service— where shall he so properly look for patron- 
age as to the illustrious names of his Native Land ; those who bear the ho- 
nours and inherit the virtues of their Ancestors ? The Poetic Genius of 
my Country found me, as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha — at the 
plough ; and threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me sing the 
loves, the joys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native soil, in my 
native tongue ; I turned my wild, artless notes, as she inspired. — She whis- 
pered me to come to this ancient Metropolis of Caledonia, and ay my 
Songs under your honoured protection : I now obey her dictates. 

Though much indebted to your goodness, I do not approach you, my 
Lords and Gentlemen, in the usual style of dedication, to thank you for 
past favours ; that path is so hackneyed by prostituted learning, that ho- 
nest rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor do I present this Address with the 
venal soul of a servile Author, looking for a continuation of those favours : 
I was bred to the Plough, and am independent. 1 come to claim the coip 
mon Scottish name with you, my illustrious Countrymen ; and to tell .^c 
world that I glory in the title. 1 come to congratulate my Country, that 
the blood of her ancient heroes still runs uncontaminated ; and that from 
your courage, knowledge, and public-spirit, she may expect protection, 
wealth, and liberty. In the last place, I come to prefer my warmest wishes 
to the Great Fountain of Honour, the Monarch of the Universe, for your 
welfare and happiness. 

When you go forth to awaken the Echoes, in the ancient and favourite 
amusement of your forefathers, may Pleasure ever be of your party ; and 
may Social Joy await yosjr return : When harassed in courts or camps 



cix DEDICATION TO THE CALEDONIAx^ HUNT. 

with the jostlings of bad men and bad measures, may the honest consci- 
ousness of injured worth attend your return to your Native Seats ; and 
may Domestic Happiness, with a smihng welcome, meet you at your gates ! 
May corruption shrink at your kindling indignant glance ; and may tyranny 
in the Ruler, and licentiousness in the People, equally find an inexorable 
foel 

I have the honour to be, 

With the sincerest gratitude, 
and highest respect^ 

My Lords and Gentlemen, 
Your most devoted humble servant, 

ROBERT BURNa. 

Edinburgh, ( 
^pril 4, 1787. ^ 



POEMS, 



CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. 



THE TWA DOGS: 

A TALE. 

TwAs La that place o' Scotland's isle, 
That Dears the name o' A.uld King Coil, 
Upon a bonnie day in June, 
When wearing thro' the afteraoon, 
Twa dogs that were na thrang at harae, 
Forgather'd ance upon a time. 

The first I'll name they ca'd him Ccesar, 
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure : 
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; 
But whalpit some place far abroad, 
Where sailors gang to fish for cod. 

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar 
Show'd him th« gentleman and scholar : 
But tho' he was o' high degree, 
The fient a pride na pride had he ; 
But wad hae spent cji hour caressin', 
Ev'n with a tinkler gipsey's messin'. 
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie, 
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him. 
And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him. 

The either was a ploughman's collie, 
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, 
Wha for his friend an' comrade had him, 
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, 
After some dog in Highland sang,* 
Was made lang syne — Lord knows how lang. 

He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke, 
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. 
His honest, sonsie, bavvs'nt face, 
Aye gat him friends in ilka place. 
His breast was white, his towzie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, 
Hung o'er his hurdles wi' a swurl. 



• CuchuUin'i dog in Ossian's Fingal. 



Nae doubt but they were fain o' itber, 
An' unco pack an' thick thegither ; 
Wi' social noise whyles suuffd and snowkit 5 
Whyles mice and mowdieworts they howkitj 
Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion, 
An' worry 'd ithcr in diversion ; 
Until wi' dafUn weary grown, 
Upon a knowe they sat them down, 
And there began a lang digression. 
About the lords^ o' the creation 



I've often wonder'd honest Luath, 
What sort o' life poor dogs like you nare , 
An' when the gentry's life I saw, 
What way poor bodies lived ava. 

Our Laird gets in his racked rents, 
His coals, his kain, and a' his stents : 
He rises when he likes himsel' ; 
His flunkies answer at the bell ; 
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; 
He draws a bonnie silken purse, 
As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the steeks, 
The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. 

Frae morn to e'en its nought but toiling, 
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; 
An tho' the gentry fast are stechin', 
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, 
That's little short 0' downright wastrie. 
Our Whipper-in, wee blastit wonner, 
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner, 
Better than ouy tenant man 
His Honour has in a' the Ian' : 
An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, 
I own its past my comprehension. 

LUATH. 

Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash't eneugt, 
A cotter howkin in a sheugh, 
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke, 
Baring a quarry, and sic like. 
Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, 
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans, 
An' nought but his ban' darg; to keep 
Them righ«- and tight in tlack an' rape. 



BURNS WORKS. 



An' when tliey meet wi sail aisasters. 
Like loss o' health, or want of masters, 
Ye uKiist wad think, a wee toucli langer, 
An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger; 
But, how it comes, I never ken'd yet, 
They're maistly wonderfu' contented ; 
An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies, 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 

C.«SAR. 

But then to see how ye're negleckit, 
How huff'd, and cufT'd, and disrespeckit ! 
L — d, man, our gentry care as little 
For delvers, ditcliers, and sic cattle ; 
They gang as saucy by poor fo'k. 
As I wad by a stinking brock. 

I've notic'd on our Laird's court day 
An' mony a time my heart's been wae, 
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, 
How they maun thole a factor's snash ; 
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear. 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble. 
An' hear it a', an' ftar an' tremble ! 

I see how folk live that hae riches ; 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches. 

LUATH. 

They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think 
Tho' constantly on pool tith's brink : 
They're sae accustomed wi' the sight. 
The view o't gi'e* them little fright 

Then chance an' fortune are sae guided. 
They're aye in less or mair provided ; 
An' tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives. 
Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives ; 
The prattlin things are just their pride 
That sweetens a' their tire-side. 

An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappj 
Can raak the bodies unco happy , 
They lay aside their private cares, 
To mind the Kirk and State affairs 
They'll talk o' patronage and priests, 
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts, 
Or tell what new tix.ition's comin', 
And ferlie at the folk in Loa'on. 

As bleak-fac'd H;dlowmas returns, 
They get the jovial, rantin' kirns, 
Wh.en rural llfv, o' fvery station. 
Unite in common rpcreation : 
Love blinks. Wit slaps, an' social Mirth 
Forgets there's Care iipo' the earth. 

That merry .; y the year begins. 
They bar the auor on frosty winds ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling re" i. 
4n' aheds a heart-inspiring steanr • 



The luntin' pipe, ar.i sneeshin' mill, 
Are handed round wi' right guid will : 
The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse, 
The yoimg anes raritin' thro' the house,' 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. 

Still it's owre true that ye hae said, 
Sic game is now owre aften play'd. 
There's monie a creditable stock 
O' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k, 
Are riven out baith root and branch, 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himself the faster 
In favours wi' some gentle master, 
Wha aiblins thrang a parliamentin'. 
For Britain's guid his saul indentiu'- 



Haith, lad, ye little ken about it 
I''or Britain's guid ! — guid faith, I doubt it 
Say, rather, gaun as Premiers lead hira. 
An' saym' aye or no's they bid hira : 
At operas an' plays parading. 
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading ; 
Or may be, in a frolic daft, 
To Hague or Calais takes a waft, 
To mak a tour, and tak a whirl, 
To learn bon ton and see the worl' 

There, at Vienna, or Versailles, 
He rives his father's auld entails ! 
Or by Madrid he takes the r(uit, 
To thrum guitars and fecht wi' nowt ; 
Or down Italian vista startles, 
Wh — re-hunting among groves o' myrtles 
Then bouses drumly German water, 
To mak hirasel' look fair and fatter. 
An' clear the consequential sorrows 
Love gifts of Carnival signor;is. 
For Britain's guid ! — for her destruction 
Wi' dissipation, feu*l, an' faction. 

LUATH. 

Hech man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate 
They waste sae mony a braw estate ! 
Are we sie foughten an' harass'd 
For gear to gang that gate at last ! 

O would they stay aback frae courts, 
An' please themselves wi' countra sports, 
It wad for every ane be better, 
The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter ! 
For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billies, 
Fient haet o' them's ill- hearted fellows ; 
Except for breakin' o' their timmer. 
Or speakin' lightly o' their limmer. 
Or shootia' o' a hare or moor-cock, 
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye *ei! mi. Mtj>t,cr Ccssar, 
Sure gr-^a* folk'.' ,.V> a '" o pli-i*ur?" 
JS, ca'ild '..'• nunt,cr e'er can stt. ohem, 
The i'=iy tnought o't need na fear theru. 



POEMS. 



L — d, man, were ye but whyks where I am, 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'am. 

It's true, they need na starve or sweat, 
Thro' winter's cauld or simmer's heat ; 
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes. 
An' fill auld age wi' gripes an' granes : 
But human bodies are sic fools, 
For a' their colleges an' schools, 
That when nae real ills perplex them, 
They mak enow themselves to vex them. 
An' aye the less they hae to sturt them, 
In like proportion less will hurt them ; 
A country fellow at the pleugh, 
His acres till'd, he's right eneugh ; 
A country girl at her wheel. 
Her dizzens done, she's »mco weel ; 
But Gentlemen, an Ladies warst, 
Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst. 
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy ; 
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy ; 
Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless; 
Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless; 
An* ev'n their sports, their balls, an' races, 
Their gallopin' through pul)lic places. 
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 
The men cast out in party matches, 
Then sowther a' in deep debauches : 
Ae night they're mad wi' drink an wh-ring, 
Neist day their life is past enduring. 
The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, 
As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, 
They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. 
Whyles o'er the wee bit cup and platie, 
They sip the scandal potion pretty ; 
Or lee lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks 
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; 
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 
An' cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard. 

There's some exception, man an' woman ; 
But this is Gentry's life in common. 

By this the sun was out o' sight : 
An' darker gloaming brought the night : 
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone ; 
The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan : 
When up they gat an shook their lugs, 
Reioic'd they were na men but dogs ; 
And each took afF his several way, 
Resolv'd to meet some ither day. 



There let him bouse, and deep carouse 

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, 
Till he forgets his loves or debts, 

An' minds his griefs no more. 

Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 



SCOTCH DRINK 



Gie him strong drink, until he wink. 
That's sinking hi despair ; 

An' liquor guid to fire his bluid, 
Thai's Drest wi' erief an' care ; 



Let other poets raise a fracas, 

'Bout vines, and wines, and drunken Sacchua, 

An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us. 

An' grate our lug, 
1 sing the juice Scids hear can mak us, 

In glass or jug. 

O Thou, my Muse ! guid auld Scotch Drink 
Whether thro' wimpling worms thou jink, 
Or, ri(;hly brown, ream o'er the brink. 

In glorioiis faem. 
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink. 

To sing thy name. 

Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn. 
And Aits set up their awnie horn, 
An' Pease and Beans at e'en or morn. 

Perfume the plain, 
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, 

Thow king o' grain ! 

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood. 
In souple scones, the wail o' food ! 
Or tumblin' in the boiling flood, 

Wi' kail an' beef ; 
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood 

There thou shines chief. 

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livln' ; 
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin', 
When heavy diagg'd wi' pine and grievin' ; 

But oil'd by thee, 
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin', 

Wi' ractlin' glee. 

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear ; 
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care j 
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair ; 

At's weary toil ; 
Thou even brightens dark Despair 

Wi' gloomy smile. 

Aft, clad in massy silver weed, 
Wi' Gentles thou erects thy head ; 
Yet humbly kind in time o' need, 

The poor man's wine, 
His wee drap parritch, or his bread. 

Thou kitchens fine. 

Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 
But thee, what were our fairs and rants? 
Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts. 

By thee inspir'd. 
When gaping they besiege the tents. 

Are doubly fir'd. 

That merry night we get the corn in, 
O sweetly then thou reams the horn in ! 
Or reekin' on a New-year morning 
In cog or bickeir 



BURNS' WORKS. 



All' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, 
An' gusty sucker ! 

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, 
An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, 
O rare ! to see the tizz an' freath 

r the lugget caup ! 
Then Burnewin • conies on like death 
At ev'ry chaup. 

Nae mercy, then, for aim or steel ; 
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel'. 
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, 

The strong forehammer, 
Till block an' studdie ring an reel 

Wi' dinsome clamoui'. 

When skirlin weanies see the light, 
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, 
How fumhn' cuifs their dearies slight, 

Wae worth the name ! 
Nae howdie gets a social night, 

Or plack frae them. 

When neebours anger at a plea. 
An' just as wud as wud can be, 
How easy can the barley bree 

Cement the quarrel ; 
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, 

To taste the barrel. 

Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason 
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason ; 
But mony daily weet their weason 

Wi' liquors nice, 
An' hardly, in a winter's season, 

E'er spier her price. 

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash, 
Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash ! 
Twins monie a poor, doylt, drunken hash, 

O' half his days ; 
An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash 
To her warst faes. 

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well ! 
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell. 
Poor plackless devils like mysel' ! 

It sets you ill, 
Wi* bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell. 
Or foreign gill. 

INIay gravels round his blather wrench, 
An' gouts torment him inch by inch, 
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch 

O* sour disdain, 
Out owre a glass o' whisky punch 

Wi' honest men. 

O Whisky! soul o' plays an' pranks! 
Accept a Bardie's humble thanks ! 
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks 
Are my poor verses ! 



Thou comes 



-they rattle i' t„eir raoka 
At ither's a — s ' 



'Xhee, Ferintosh I O sadly lost ! 
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast ! 
Now colic grips, and bar kin hoast, 

IMay kill us a' ; 
For loyal Forbes' chartered boast 
Ts ta'en awa' ! 

Thae curst horse leeches o' th' Excise, 
Wha mak the Whisky SteUs their prize ! 
Haud up thy han', Deil ! ance, twice, thriae ! 

There, seize the blinkers ! 
An' bake them up in brunstane pies 

For poor d — n'd drinkers. 

Fortune ! if thou'll but gie me still 
Hale breeks, a scone, an' Whisky gilly 
An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, 

Tak a' the rest, 
An' deal't about as thy blind skill 

Directs thee best. 



THE AUTHOR S 

EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER* 

TO THE 

SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES 

IN THE 

HOUSE OF COMMONS. 



Dearest of Distillation ! last and best 

Hoiv art thou lost ! Parody on Milio'i. 



• Burnewin — Burnihe-wind —the blacksmith ■ 
appropriate title. 



Ye Irish Lords, Ye Knights an' Squires, 
Wha represent our brughs an' shires, 
And doucely manage our affairs 

In parliament, 
To you a simple x -ets prayers 

Are humbly sent. 

Alas ! my roupet Muse is hearse ! 
Your honours* hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce 
To see her sittin' on her a — 

Low i' the dust. 
An' screichin' out prosaic verse. 

An' like to brust ! 

Tell them wha hae the chief direction, 
Scotland an' me's In great affliction. 
E'er sin they laid that curst restriction 

On AquavitcE , 
An* rouse them up to strong conviction 
An' move their pity. 



♦ This was written before the act anent the Scoa.h 
Distilleries, of session 1786; for which Scotland and 
the Author return their most grateful thanks. 



POEMS. 



Stai forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth, 
The h est, open, naked truth : 
Tell hi ' o' mine and Scotland's drouth, 

His servants humble : 
The mi ■ kle devil blavv ye south, 

If ye dissemble ! 

Does my great man glunch an' gloom ! 
Speak int, an' never fash your thumb : 
Let poscf an' pensions sink or soom 

Wi' them wha grant 'em v 
If hones' y they canna come, 

Far better want *em. 

In gat- ring votes you were na slack ; 
Now stai 1 as tightly i)y your tack ; 
Ne'er cla-v your lug, an fidge your back, 

An' hum an' haw ; 
But raise our arm, an' tell your crack 

Before them a' 

Paint S. otland greeting owre her thrissle ; 
Her mutch i< n stoup as toom's a whissle ; 
An' d-ran'i' Excisemen in a bussle. 

Seizin' a stell, 
Triumphant 'ushin't like a mussel, 

Or lampit shell. 

Then on tl. tither hand present her, 
. A blackguard 'smuggler right behint her, 
An' cheek-for-c >ow, a chuffie Vintner, 

Colleaguing join, 
Picking her poucn as bare as winter 
Of a' kind coin. 

Is there, that bear' the name o' Scot, 
But feels his heart's ./uid i-ising hot, 
To see his poor auld . /Zither's pot 

Tbus dung in staves. 
An' plunder'd o' her hi. -imost groat 

By ^i lows knaves ? 

Alas ! I'm but a nameless wight, 
Trode i' the mire out o' sigL ' 
But could I like Montgomeriej 6ght, 

Or gab lik«. Boswell, 
There's some sark-necks I wad rlraw tight. 

An' tie some t.')se well. 

God bless your Honours, cau ye see't. 
The kind, auld, cantie Carlin greet. 
An' no get warmly to your feet, 

An gar them hear it. 
An' tell them wi' a patriot heat, 

Ye winna bear it ! 

Some o' you nicely ken the laws, 
To round the period an' pause, 
An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause 

To mak harangues ; 
Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's 

Auld Scotland's wrangs. 

Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran j 
rhee, aith-de testing, chaste Kilkerran ;* 



• Sir Adam Ferguson. 



in' that glib-gabbct High ir.d Baroii, 

The Laird o' Graham;* 

An' ane, a chap that's damn'd auldfarran, 
Dundas his name. 

ErsJiine, a spunkie Norland billie ; 
True Campbells, Frederick an' Hat/ ; 
An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie ; 

An' mony ithers. 
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully 

Might own for brlthers. 

Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle. 
To get auld Scotland back her hettle ; 
Or faith ! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle, 

Ye'll see't or lang. 
She'll teach you, wi' a reekin' whittle, 

Anither sang. 

This while she's been in canc'rous mood, 
Her lost Militia fir'd her bluid ; 
(Deil na they never mair do guid, 

Plaj''d her that pliskie!) 
An' now she's like to rin red-wud 

About her Whisky. 

An' L — d if ance they pit her till't. 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt. 
An' durk an' pistol at her belt. 

She'll tak the streets, 
An' rin her whittle to the hilt, 

r the first she meets ! 

For G — d sake, Sirs ! then speak her fair, 
An' straik her cannie wi' the hair. 
An' to the muckle house repair, 

Wi' instant speed. 
An' strive, wi' a' your wit an' lear, 

To get remead. 

Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks ; 
But gie him't het, my hearty cocks ! 

E'en cowe the caddie 
An* send him to his dicing box 

An' sportin' lady. 

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Bockonnock'sy 

I'll be his debt twa mashluni bannocks. 

An' drink his health in auUNanse Tinnock8,f 

Nine times a week. 
If he some scheme, like tea and winnocks, 

Wad kindly seek. 

Could he some commutation broach, 
I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, 
He need na fear their foul reproach 
Nor erudition. 
Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotcKpotch, 
The Coalition. 

Auld Scotland has a raucle torgue j 
She's just a devil wi* a rung ; 



* The present Duke of Montrose.— (1800.) 

t A worthy old Hoster,s of the Author's in Mauch 

line, where he sometimes studies Politics over 

of guid auld Scotch Drink. 



glaa 



l: 



6 



BURNS' WORKS. 



An' if she promise auld or young 

To tak their part, 

Tho' by the neck she should be strung, 
She'll no desert. 

An* now, ye chosen Five-and- Forty, 
May still your Mither's heart support ye : 
Then, tho* a Minister grow dorty, 

An' kick your place, 
Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty, 

Before his face. 

God bless your Honours a' your days, 
Wi' soups o' kail and brats o' claise, 
In spite o* a' the thievish kaes 

That haunt St Jamie's ! 
Your humble poet sinajs an' prays 

While Rah his name is. 



Till whare ye sit, on (Taps o' heather, 
Ye tine your dam ; 

{Freedom and Whixky gang thegither !) 
Tak aff your dram ! 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Let half-starv'd slaves, in wanner skies 
See future wines, rich clust'ring rise ; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, 

But blithe and frisky. 
She eyes her freeborn martial boys. 

Tak aif their Whisky. 

What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms, 
hile fragrance blooms and beauty charms ! 
When wretches range, in faraish'd swarms, 

The scented groves. 
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms 

In hungry droves. 

Their gun's a burden on their shouther ; 
They downa bide the stink o' pouther ; 
Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither 

To Stan' or rin. 
Till skelp — a shot — they're aff, a' throwther. 

To save their skin. 

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill. 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill. 
Say, such is i-oyal George s will, 

An' there's the foe, 
He has nae thought but how to kill 
Twa at a blow. 

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doublings tease him: 
Death comes, with fearless eye he sees him ; 
Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him ; 

An' when he fa's. 
His latest draught o' breathin' lea'es him 

In faint huzzas. 

Sages their solemn een may steek. 
An' raise a philosophic reek, 
An' phvisically causes seek, 

In clime an' season ; 
But tell me Whisky's name in Greek, 

I'll teLl the reason. 

Scotland, my auld, respected JMither ! 
Tho* whyles ye moistify your leather. 



THE HOLY FAIR.* 



A robe of seeming truth and trust 

Hid crafty Observation ; 
And secret hung with poison'd crust. 

The dirk of Defamation : 
A mask that like the gorget show'd 

Dye-varying on the pigeon ; 
And for a rnantle large and broad. 

He wrant him In Religion. 

Hypocrisy-a-la-mof'*, 



T. 

Upon a simmer Sunday morn, 

When Nature's face is fair, 
I walked forth to view the corn. 

An' snuff the callar air. 
The rising sun owre Galston muirs. 

Wi' glorious light was glintin' ; 
The hares were hirplin' down the ure, 

The lav'rocks they were chantiii' 

Fu* sweet that day. 

II. 

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad 

To see a scene sae gay. 
Three hizzies, early at the road, 

Cam skelpin' up the wav • 
Twa had manteeles o' dolctu' black, 

But ane wi' lyart lining ; 
The third that gaed a w-e a-back, 

Was in the fashion snming, 

Pn gay that day. 

III. 

The twa appear'd like sisters twin, 

In feature, form, an' claes : 
Their visage wither'd, lang, an' thin, 

An' sour as ony slaes ; 
The third came up, hap-stap-an'-loup, 

As light as ony lammie. 
An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, 

As soon as e'er she saw me, 

Fu' kind that day 

IV. 

Wi bannet aff, quoth I, ' Sweet lass, 

I think ye seem to ken me ; 
I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face, 

But yet I canna name ye.'- 
Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak. 

An' talv's me by the hands, 
" Ye, for my sake, ha'e gi'en the feck 

Of a* the ten commands 

A screed some day. 



* Holy Fair is a common phrase in the west of Scot, 
land for a sacramental occasion. 



POEMS. 



" Mv narne is Fun — your cronie dear, 

The nearest friend ye ha'e ; 
An' this is Superstition here, 

An' that's Hypocrisy. 
I'm gaun to Holy Fair, 

To spend an hour in daffin' ; 
Gin ye'll g;o there, yon runkled pair, 

We will get famous laughin' 

At them this day,* 

VI. 

Quoth I, ' With a' my heart I'll do't ; 

I'll get my Sunday's sark on, 
An' meet you on the holy spot ; 

Faith we'se hae fine remai'kin' !* 
Then I gaed harae at crowdie time, 

An soon I made me ready ; 
For roads were clad, frae side to side, 

Wi' monie a weary body, 

In droves that day. 

VII. 
Here fai.ners gash, in ridin' graltli 

Gaed hoddin' by their cotters : 
Their swankies young, in braw braid-claith 

Are springin' o'er the gutters. 
The lasses, skelpin" barefoot, thrang, 

In silks an' scarlets glitter ; 
Wi' sweet-milk cheese in monie a whang, 

An' farls bak'd wi' butter, 

Fu* crump that day. 

VIII. 

When by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, 

An' we maun draw our tippence. 
Then in we go to see the sliow, 

On ev'ry side they're gatherin', 
Some carrying deals, some chairs an' stools, 

An* some are busy bletherin'. 

Right loud that day. 

IX. 

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, 

An' screen our countra Gentry, 
There, racer Jess, an' twa-three whores, 

Are blinkin' at the entry. 
Here sits a raw of tittlin' jades, 

Wi' heavin' breast and bare neck. 
An' there a batch of wabster lads, 

Blackguardin' frae K ck, 

Vox fun this day. 

X. 

Here some are thinkin' on their sins, 

An' some upo' their claes ; 
Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, 

Anither sighs an' prays ; 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi' screw'd up grace-proud faces ; 
On that a set o' chaps at watch, 

Thrang winkin' on the lasses 

To chairs that day 



XL 

O happy is the man an' blest ! 

Nae wonder that it pride hira ! 
Wha's ain dear lass, that he likes bestj 

Comes clinkiu' down beside him! 
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair-back. 

He sweetly does compose him ! 
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, 

An's loof upon her bosom 

Unkenn'd that day. 

XII. 

Now a' the congregation o'er 

Is silent expectation ; 
For speefs the holy door 

Wi' tidings o' damnation. 
Should Hornie, as in ancient davs, 

'Mang sons o' God present him. 
The vera sight o' 's face, 

To's ain het hame had sent him 

Wi' fright that day. 



XIII. 



faith 



Hear how he clears the points o' 

Wi' rattlin' an' thumpiu' ! 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath. 



He's sta 



mpui an he s jumpm 



His lengthcn'd chin, his turn'd-up snout, 
His eldritch squeel and gestures, 

Oh, how they fire the heart devout, 
Like cantharidian plasters, 

On sic a day ! 

XIV. 

But hark ! the tent has chang'd its voice j 

There's peace and rest nae langer : 
For a' the real judges rise. 

They canna sit for anger. 
■ opens out his cauld harangues 

On practice and on morals ; 
An' aflf the godly pour in thrangs. 

To gie the jars an' barrels 

A lift that day. 

XV. 

What signifies his barren shine 

Of moral pow'rs ar.d reason ? 
His English style, an' gesture fine. 

Are a' clean out o' season. 
Like Socrates or Antonine, 

Or some auld pagan Heathen, 
The moral man he does define. 

But ne'er a word o' faith in 

That's right that day 

XVI. 

In guid time comes an antidote 
Against sic poison'd nostrum : 

For , frae the water-fit. 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 

See, up he's got the word o' God, 
An' meek an' mim has view'd it, 



! i 



8 



BURNS' WORKS. 



While Common-sense lias ta'en the road, 
An' aff, an' up the Cowgate,* 

Fast, fast, that day 



Wee 



XVII. 

neist the guard reliaves, 



An' orthodoxy raibles, 
rho' in his heart he weel believes, 

And thinks it auld wives* fables : 
But, faith ; the birkie wants a manse 

So cannily he hums them ; 
Altho' his carnal wit and sense 

Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes him 

At times that daj . 

XVIIL 

Now but an' ben, the change-house fills, 

Wi' yill-caup commentators : 
Here's crying out for bakes and gills, 

And there the pint stoup clatters ; 
While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang, 

Wi' logic, an' wi' Scripture, 
They raise a din, that in the end. 

Is like to breed a rupture 

O* wrath that day. 

XIX. 

^eeze me on Drink ! it gi'es us mair 

Than either School or College : 
It kindles wit, it waukens lair, 
} It pangs us fou o' knowledge. 

Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep, 

Or ony stronger potion, 
It never fails, on drinking deep, 
' To kittle up oui- notion 

By night or day. 

XX. 

The lads an' lasses, blythely bent 

To mind baith saul an' body, 
Sit round the table weel content, 

An' steer about the toddy. 
On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk. 

They're makin' observations ; 
While some are cozie i' the neuk. 

An* forming assignations 

To meet some day. 

XXI. 

But now the L — d's ain trumpet touts, 

Till a' the hills are rairin', 
An' echoes back return the shouts : 

Black is na spairin' : 

His piercing words, like Highland swords, 

Divide the joints ai.' "narrow ; 
His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell, 

O'i- very sauls does harrow f 

Wi' fright that day. 

XXII. 

A vast, unbottom'd boundless pit, 
Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane. 



Wha's ragin' fiame an' scorchin* heat^ 
Wad melt the hardest whun-stane' 
The half asleep start up wi' fear, 
An' think they hear it roaria , 
When presently it does appear, 

Twas but some neighbour snorin 
Asleep that day. 

XXIII. 

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell 

How monie stories past. 
An' how they crowded to the yill, 

When they were a' dismist : 
How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caupc 

Amang the furms an' benches ; 
An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, 

Was dealt about in lunches 

An' dawds that day. 

XXIV. 

In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife, 

An' sits down by the fire, 
Syne draws her kebbuck an' her kni£e^ 

The lasses they are shyer. 
The auld guidmen, about the grace, 

Frae side to side they bother. 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays, 

An* gi'es them't like a tether, 

Fu' lang that day. 

XXV. 

Waesucks I for him that gets nae latBf 

Or lasses that hae naething ! 
Sma' need has he to say a grace 

Or melvie his braw claithing ! 
O wives be mindfu' ance youisel' 

How bonnie lads ye wanted. 
An' dinna for a kebbuck-heel. 

Let lasses be affronted 

On sic a day ! 

XXVL 

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin' tow, 

Begins to jow an' croon ; 
Some swagger harae, the best they dow» 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps the billies halt a blink, 

Till lasses strip their shoon : 
Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink^ 

They're a' in famous tune, 

For crack that day. 

xxvn. 

How monie hearts this day converts 

O* sinners and o' lasses I 
Their heai'ts o' stane, gin night, are gaoe 

As saft as ony flesh is. 
There's some are fou o* love divine ; 

There's some are fou o' brandy ; 
An' mooy jobs that day begin, 

May end in houghmagandie 

Some ither day. 



• A street so called, which faces tlie ent In . 
+ Shakespeare's Hamlet. 



POEMS. 



DEATH AND DOCTOR HORN- 
BOOK : 

A TRUE STORY. 

SojiE books are lies frae end to end, 
And some great lies were never penn'd : 
Ev*n Ministers, they hae been kenn'd, 

In holy rapture, 
A rousing whid, at times, to vend, 

And nail't wi' Scripture. 

But this that I am gaun to tell, 
Which lately on a night befell, 
Li just as true's the De'ils in hell 

Or Dublin city : 
That e'ei- he nearer comes oursel' 

'S a muckle pity. 

The Clachan yiU had made me canty, 
I was nae fou, but just had plenty ; 
I stacher'd whiles, but yet took tent aye 

To free the ditches ; 
An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd aye 

Frae ghaists an' witches. 

Tbe rising moon began to glow'r 
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre ; 
To count her horns, wi* a' ray power, 

I set mysel' ; 
But whether she had three or four, 

I couldna tell. 

I was come round about the hill. 
And todlin down on Wine's mill, 
Setting my staiF wi' a' my skill, 

To keep me sicker ; 
Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, 

I took a bicker. 

I there wi* Something did forgathes, 

That put me in an eerie swither : 

An' awfu* scythe, out-owre ae shouther. 

Clear-dangling, hang ; 
A three-taed leister on the ither, 

Lay, large and lang. 

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, 
Tbe queerest shape that e'er I saw. 
For fient a wame it had ava ; 

And then, its shanks. 
They were as thin, as sharp, an' sma' 

As cheeks o' branks. 

' Guid-een,'quo'I ; ' Friend ! hae yebeenmawin', 
When ither folk are busy sawin' ?' * 
It seem'd to male' a kind o' stan', 

But naething spak : 
At length, says I, ' Friend, where ye gaun. 

Will ye go back ?' 

It spak right howe, — * My name is Death, 
But be na fley'd.' — Quoth I, ' Guid faith, 
Ye're maybe come to stap my breath ; 
But tent me, billie : 

• This rencounter happened in seed-time, 1785. 



I red ye weel, tak care e' skaith. 

See there's a gTkvJy !* 

' Guidman,' quo' he, * put up your whittlci 
I'm no design'd to try its mettle ; 
But if I did, I wad be kittle 

To be mislear'd, 
I wadna mind it, no, that spittle 

Out owre my beard. 

' Weel, weel !' says I, ' a bargain be't; 
Come, gie's your hand, an* sae we're gree't; 
We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat, 

Come gie's your news ; 
This while * ye hae been muny a gate, 

At mony a house.' 

' Ay, ay !* quo' he, an' shook his head, 
' Its een a lang, lang time indeed 
Sin' I began to nick the thread, 

An' choke the breath; 
Folk maun do something for their bread, 

An' sae maun Death. 

* Sax thousand years are nearhand fled 
Sin' I was to the hutching bred. 

An* mony a scheme in vain's been laid, 
To stap or scar me ; 

Till ane Hornhook 's f taen up the trade. 

An' faith, he'll waur me, 

* Ye ken Jock Hornhook, i' the Clachan, 
Deil mak his king's hood in a spleuchan ! 
He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Buchan i 

An' ither chaps. 
The weans baud out their fingers laughin* 
An' pouk my hips. 



* See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart. 
They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart : 
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art 

And cursed skill. 
Has made them baith no worth a f — t, 

Damn'd haet they 



kill. 



' *Twas but yestieen, nae farther gaen, 

I threw a noble throw at ane ; 

Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain ; 

But deil-ma-cai'e, 
It just play'd dirl on the bane. 

But did nae mair. 

* Hornhook was by, wi' ready art, 
And had sae fortified the part, 
That when I looked to my dart, 

It was sae blunt, 
Fient haet o*t wad hae pierc'd the heart 

Of a kail-runt. 

drew my scythe in sic a fury, 



I • An epidemical fever was then raging in that country 
I t This genUemaJi, Di: Horjihook, is, professionally 
a brother of the Sovereign Order of the Ferula; but 
by intuition and inspiration, 15 at once on Apothecary 
Surgeon, and Physician. 

X Budfian's Domestiic Medicine. 
12 



BURNS' WORKS. 



I nearhand coupit wi* my hurry, 
But yet the bauld Apnthecary 

Withstood the shock ; 
I might as wcel liae tried a (ju;irry 

O' hard whin rock, 

* Ev'n thensi be carina get attended, 
Altho' theii face he ne'er had ken'd it, 
Just ■ in a kail-blade, and send it, 

As soon's he sniells't, 
Baith their disease, and what will mend it, 
At once he tells't. 

* An' then a' doctors' saws and whittles, 
Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, 
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles. 

He's sure to hae ; 
Their Latin names as fast he rattles 
As A B C. 

* Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees ; 
True Sal-marinum o* the seas ; 
The Fai'ina of beans and pease, 

He has't in plenty ; 
Aqua-fontis, what you please, 

He can content ye. 

* Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, 
Urinus Spiritus ot capons ; 

Or Mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings ; 

Distill 'd per se ,• 
Sal-alkali o' Midge-tail clippins, 

An' mouy mae.' 

* Waes me for Johnny GecTs Hole * now ;' 
Quo' I, ' If that the news be true ! 

His braw calf-ward where gowans grew, 
Sae white an' bonnie, 

Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plough ; 

They'll ruin Johnny /' 

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, 
An' says, ' Ye need na yoke the pleugh. 
Kirk-yards will soon be till'd eneugh, 

Tak ye nae fear ; 
They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh 

In twa-three year. 

' Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death. 
By loss o' blood or want o' breath, 
This night I'm free to tak my aith, 

That Hur7ibook's skill 
Has clad a score i' their last claith, 

By drap an' pill. 

* An honest Wabster to his trade, 

Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel bred. 
Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, 

When it was sair ; 
The wife slade cannie to her bed. 

But ne'er spak mair. 

* A countra Laird had ta'en the batts, 
Or some cumurring in his guts, 



His only son for Hornbook sets. 

An* pays him well ; 

The lad, for twa guid gimmer pets, 

Was laird himsel*. 

• A bonnie lass, ye ken her name, 

Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame ; 

She trusts hersel', to hide the shame, 

In Hornhook^s care ; 
Horn sent her aff to her lang hame, 

To hide it there. 

' That's just a swatch o' Horiibook' s way ; 
Thus goes he on from day to day, 
Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay, 

An's weel paid for't ; 
Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prev, 

Wi' his daum'd dirt. 

' But hark ! I'll tell you of a plot. 
Though dinna ye be speaking o't ; 
I'll nail the self- conceited sot. 

As dead's a herrin' ; 
Neist time we meet, I'll wad a groat, 

He gets his fairin* •* 

But just as he began to tell. 

The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell, 

Some wee short hour ayont the twal, 

Which rais'd us baith 
I took the way that pleased mysel', 

And sae did Death. 



THE BRIGS OF AYR 



A POEM. 



Inscribed to J. B- 



EsQ. Ayr. 



Thegijive-digger. 



The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, 
Learning his tuneful trade from every bough ; 
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, 
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green 

thorn bush : 
The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, 
Or deep-toned plovers, grey, wild whistling o'er 

the hill ; 
Shall he, nurst in the Peasant's lowly shed. 
To hardy independence bravely bred, 
By early Poverty to hardship steel'd. 
And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune' 

field- 
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, 
The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? 
Or labour hard the panegyric close. 
With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose ? 
No ! though his artless strains he rudely sings, 
And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the stringSj 
He glows with all the spirit of *he Bard, 
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward. 
Still, if some Patron's generous care he trace, 
Skilled in the secret, to bestow with grace ; 

When B befriends his humble lame, 

And hands the rustic stranger up to tame. 



POEMS. 



U 



With heart-felt tliroes his grateful bosom 
swells, 
The godlike to give alone excels. 



'Twas when the stacks get on their winter 

hap, 
And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap : 
Fctatoe bings are snugged up frae skaith 
Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath ; 
The bees, rejoicing o'er their simmer toils, 
Unnumber'd buds an' flowers' delicious spoils, 
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen 

piles, 
Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak, 
The death o' devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone 

reek : 
The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side, 
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; 
The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie, 
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : 
(Wlaat warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds, 
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds) ! 
Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs : 
Nae mair the grove wi' airy concert rings, 
Except, perhaps, the Robin's whistling glee. 
Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree : 
The hoary morns precede the sunny davs, 
Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide 

blaze, 
While thick the gossamour waves wanton in 

the rays. 
*Twas in that season, when a simple bard, 
Unknown and poor, simplicity s reward, 
Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, 
By whim inspired, or haply prest wi' care, 
He left his bed, and took his wayward route, 
And down by Simpson's* wheel'd the left 

about : 
(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate 
To witness what 1 after shall narrate ; 
Or whether rapt in meditation high, 
He wander'd out he knew not where nor why), 
The drowsy J)ungeo7i-clock,-f had number'd two, 
And Wallace tower -f had sworn the fact was 

true : 
The tidcrswoln Firth, with sullen-sounding 

roar. 
Thro' the still uight dash'd hoarse along the 

shore : 
All else was hush'd as Nature's ci.jsed e'e ; 
The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree : 
The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 
Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream. 

WTien, lo ! on either hand the list'ning bard. 
The clanging sough of whistling wings he 

heard ; 
Tvo dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air, 
Pwift as the Gos | drives on the wheeling hare ; 



* A noted tavern at the Auld Brig end. 

^ 'I he two steeples. 

f The fios-hawk, or falcon. 



Ane on th Auld Brig his airy shape uprearsj 

The ither flutters o'er the rising piers .- 

Our warlike Rhymer instantly descry'd 

The Sprites that ovvre the Brigs of Ayr preside. 

(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, 

An' ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk ; 

Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a' they can explain them. 

And ev'n the vera deils they brawly ken them.^ 

Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race, 

The very wrinkles Gothic in liis face : 

He seem'd as he wi' Time had Wiustl'd lang 

Yet toiighly doure, he bade an unco bang. 

JVew Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, 

That he, at JLon'on, frae ane Adams got ; 

In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, 

Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. 

The Goth was stalking round with anxious 

search, 
Spying the time-worn flaws in every arch ; 
It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e, 
And e'en a vex'd an' angry heart had he ! 
Wi' thieveless sneer to see each modish mien, 
He, down the water, gies him thus guide'en — 

AULD BRIG. 

I doubt na', frien', ye '11 think ye're nae sheep 

shank, 
A nee ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank ! 
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 
Tho' faith that day I doubt ye'll never see ; 
There'll be, if that day come, I'll wad a boddl&. 
Some fewer whi?raaleeries in vour noddle 



NEW BRIG. 

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little meuscj 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; 
Will your poor narrow foot-path of a street, 
Wliere twa wheel-barrows tremble when thej 

meet. 
Your ruin'd formless bulk, o' stane an' lime, 
Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time ? 
There's men o' taste would tak' the Ducat 

stream,* 
Tho' they should cast the very sark and swim, 
Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view 
Of sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. 

AULB BRIG. 

Conceited gowk ! pufi"'d up wi' windy pride ! 
This monie a year I've stood the flood an' tide 
An' tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 
I'll be a Brig when ye're a shapeless cairn ! 
As yet ye little ken about the m.atter. 
But twa- three winters will inform ye bettd. 
When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains, 
Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains ; 
When from the hills where springs the brawl- 
ing Coil, 
Or stately Lngar's mossy fountains boil, 
Or where the Greenock winds his moorland 

course. 
Or haunted Garpalj- draws his feeble source. 



* A noted ford, just above the Auld Brig. 
\ The banks oiGarpal fVater'vi, one of the few places 



i2 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Arous'd by blust'iing winds and spotting tliowes, 
In mony a torrent down his sna-broo rowe« ; 
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat, 
Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the 

gate; 
A.n(i from Glenbuck* down to the Rattan hey,\ 
A.iild Ayr is just one lengthen'd tumbling sea ; 
Then down ye'U hurl, deil nor ye never rise ! 
A.nd dash the guralie jaups up to the pouring 

skies, 
A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, 
That Architecture's noble art is lost ! 

NEW BRIG. 

Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say't 
o't! 
The L — d be thankit that we've tint the gate 

o't! 
Gaunt, ghastly, gaist-allm-ing edifices, 
Hanging with threat'ning jut, like precipices ; 
O'er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves. 
Supporting roofe fantastic, stony groves ; 
Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture 

drest. 
With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; 
Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream. 
The craz'd creations of misguided whim ; 
Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended 

knee, 
And still the second dread command be free, 
Their likeness is not found on eai'th, in air, or 

sea. 
Mansions that would disgrace the building taste 
Of any mason, reptile, bird, or beast ; 
Fit only for a doited Monkish race. 
Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace. 
Or cuifs of later times, wha held the notion 
That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion ; 
Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection, 
And soon may they expire, unblest with re- 
surrection ! 

AULD BRIG. 

O ye, my dear-remember'd ancient yealings, 
"Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings ! 
Ye worthy Provtses, an' mony a Bailie, 
Wha in the paths o* righteousness did toil aye ; 
Ye dainty Deacons, an ye douce Conveners, 
To whom our moderns are but causey- 
cleaners ; 
Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town ; 
Ye godly Brethren of the sacred gown, 
Wha meekly gae your hurdies to the smiters ,- 
And (what would now be strange) ye godly 

Writers : 
A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo. 
Were ye but here, what would }e say or do ! 
How would your spirits groan in deep vex- 
ation, 
To see each melancholy alteration ; 



In the West of Scotland, where those fancy-scaring he- 
togs, known by the name of Ghaists, still contmue 
oertinaciously to inhabit. 

• The sourse of the river Ayr. 

f A small landing-place above the large key. 



And agonizing, curse the time and place 

When ye begat the base, degenerate race ! 

Nae langer Rev'rend Men, their country** 

glory, 
In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid 

story ! 
Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an' douce. 
Meet owie a pint, or in the Council house : 
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, 
The herryment and ruin of the country ; 
Men, three parts made by tailors and by bar- 
bers, 

Wha waste your well-hain'd gear on d d 

new Brigs and Harbours ! 

NEW BRIG. 

Now haud you there ! for faith ye've said 

enough, 
And muckle mair than ye can mak to through, 
As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little, 
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle : 
But, under favour o' your langer beard, 
Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spared { 
To liken them to your auld warld squad, 
I must needs say comparisons are odd. 
In Ayr, Wag-wits nae mair can hae a handle 
To mouth ' a Citizen,' a term o* scandal : 
Nae mair the Council waddles aown the 

street 
In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; 
Men wha grew wise priggin' owre hops an* 

raisins. 
Or gather'd lib'ral views in Bonds and Seisins. 
If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, 
Had shored them with a glimmer of his lamp, 
And would to Common-sense, for once betrayed 

them. 
Plain dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid 

them. 



"What farther clishmaclaver might been said, 
"What bloody wai-s, if Sprites had blood to 

shed. 
No man can tell ; but all before their sight, 
A fairy train appear'd in order bright : 
Adown the glitt'ring stream they featly danced : 
Bright to the moon their various dresses 

glanced : 
They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet : 
While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung. 
And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung. 
O had M'- Lauchlin, ♦ thairm-inspiring sage. 
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, 
When thro' his dear Strathspeys they bore 

with Highland rage ; 
Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs. 
The lover's raptured joys or bleeding cares ; 
How would his Highland lug been nobler fir'd. 
And even his matchless hand with finer touch 

inspir'd ! 



* A well known performer of Scottish music on tba 
violin. 



POEMS. 



18 



No guess could tell what instrument appear' d, 
But all the soul of Music's self was heard ; 
Harmonious concert rung in every pait, 
While simple melody pour'd moving on the 

heart. 
The Genius of the stream in front appears, 
A venerable chief advanced in years ; 
His hoajy head with water-lilies crown'd, 
His majily leg with garter tangle bound. 
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, 
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with 

Spring ; 
Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural 

Joy, 
And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : 
AU-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, 
Led yellow Autumn wreath'd with nodding 

com ; 
Then Winter's time-bleached locks did hoary 

show. 
By Hospitality with cloudless brow ; 
Next follow'd Courage with his martial stride. 
From where the FeaJ wild-woody covets hide ; 
Benevolence, with mild benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair: 
Learning and Worth in equal measures trode 
From simple Catrine,' their long-lov'd abode : 
Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel 

wreath, 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The bruken iron instruments of death : 
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kind- 
ling wrath. 



THE ORDINATION. 



For sense they little owe to Frugal Heav'n — 
To please the Mob they hide the little giv'n. 



Kilmarnock Wabsters, fidge an' claw, 

An* pour your creeshie nations ; 
An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, 

Of a' denominations. 
Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a', 

An' there tak up your stations ; 
Then aff to Beghies in a raw, 

An' pour divine libations 

For joy this day. 

IL 
Curst Common- sense, that imp o' hell, 

Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder ;• 
But O aft made her yell, 

An* R — sair misca'd her ; 

This day, M' takes the flail. 

An' he's the boy will blaud her ! 



• Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on 
*he admission of the late Reverend and worthy Mr. L. 
to the Laigh Kirk. 



He'll clap a shangan on her tail, 
An' set the bairns to daud her 

Wi' dirt this day 

in. 

Mak haste an' turn king David owre, 

An' lilt wi' holy clangor ; 
O' double verse come gie us four. 

An' skirl up the Bangor : 
This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, 

Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her 
For heresy is in her power, 

And gloriously she'll whang her 

Wi' pith this day. 

IV. 
Come let a proper text be read, 

An' touch it aff" v/'' vigour. 
How graceless Ham * lev;gh 3t his Dad, 

Which made Canaan a nige; • 
Or Phineasf drove the murdering b.adc^ 

Wi' whore-abhorring rigour ; 
Or Zipporah, | the scaulding jade, 

Was like a bluidy tiger 

r the inn that day. 

V. 

There, try his mettle on the creed, 

An' bind him down wi' caution, 
That Stipend is a carnal weed, 

He taks but for the fashion ; 
An' gie him o'er the flock to feed. 

An' punish each transgression ; 
Especial, rams that cross the breed, 

Gie them suflicient threshin', 

Spare them nae day. 

VI. 

Now auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, 

An' toss thy horns fu' canty ; 
Nae mair thou'lt rowt out-owre the dak 

Because thy pasture's scanty ; 
For lapfu's large o' gospel kail 

Shall fill thy crib in plenty. 
An' runts o' grace, the pick and wale, 

No gi'en by way o' dainty, 

But ilka day. 

vn. 

Nae mair by BabeVs streams we'll weep, 

To think upon our Zion ,- 
An' hing our fiddles up to sleep, 

Like baby-clouts a-dryin' ; 
Come, screw the pegs with tunefu' cheep, 

An' owre the thairms be tryin' ; 
Oh, rare ! to see our elbucks wheep, 

An' a hke lamb-tails flyin' 

Fu' fast this day. 

VIIL 

Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' aim. 
Has shored the Kirk's undoin'. 



* Genesis, ch. ix. ver. 22. 
f Numbers, eh. xxv. ver. 8. 
i Exodus, ch. iv. ver. 25. 



14 



BURNS' WORKS. 



As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn, 

Has proven to its ruin : 
Our Patron, honest man ! Glencairn, 

He saw mischief was brewin' ; 
An* like a godly elect bairn, 

He's wal'd us out a true ane, 

An' sound this day. 

IX. 

Now R harangue nae mair, 

But steek your gab for ever ; 
Or try the wicked town of Ayr, 

For there they'll think you clever ; 
Or, nae reflection on your lear, 

Ye may commence a sbaver ; 
Or to the Netherton repair, 

An' turn a carper weaver 

Aflf hand this day. 



M- 



X. 

- and you were just a match, 
We never had sic twa drones ; 
Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch, 

Just like a winkin' baui irons : 
An' aye he catch'd the tither wretch. 

To fry them in his caudrons : 
But now his honour maun detach, 
Wi' a' his brimstone squadrons, 

Fast, fast, this day. 

XI. 

See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes, 

She's swingein' through the city ; 
Hark how the nine-tail'd cat she plays ! 

I vow it's unco pretty : 
There, Learning, wi' his Greeklsh face, 

Grunts out some Latin ditty : 
An' Common-sense is gaun, she says, 

To mak to Jamie Heattie 

Her plaint this day. 

XII. 

But there's Morality himsel', 

Embracing a' opinions ; 
Hear, how he gies the tither yell. 

Between his twa companions ; 
See, how she peels the skin an' fell, 

As ane were peelin' onions ! 
Now there — they're packed aff to hell. 

An' banish'd our dominions, 

Henceforth this day. 

XIH. 

O happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! 

Come bouse about the porter ! 
Morality's demure decoys 

Shall here nae mair find qu-'rte. : 
M' , R , ar" the ^oys., 

That heresy CC" ortu. . 
They'll i^ie i. ■' ol. a r-ifte a hoyse, 

/ r' Cv.w^ ner '.aea-^ure shorter 

By the head some day. 

XIV. 

Come bring the tither ij>atchkin in, 
An' here's for a conclusiou. 



To every Ne?c Light * mother's son. 
From this time forth. Confusion ; 

If mair they deave us wi' their din, 
Or Patronage intrusion. 

We'll light a spunk, an' ev'ry skin, 
We'll rin them aff in fusion 

Like oil, some day 



THE CALF. 

TO THE REV. MR. 

On his Text, Malachi, ch. iv. ver. 2. • And thri 
shall go forth, and grow up, like calves of he stall. 

Right Sir ! your text I'll prove it tr le. 

Though Heretics may laugh ; 
For instance ; there's yoursel' just now, 

God knows, an unco Calf! 

An' should some Patron be so kind. 

As bless you wi' a kirk, 
I doubt nae. Sir, but then we'll find, 

Ye' re still as great a Stirk. 

But, if the Lover's raptur'd hour 

Shall ever be your lot, 
Foi'bid it, every heavenly Power, 

You e'er should be a Stot ! 

Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear, 

Your but-and-ben adorns, 
The like has been that you may wear 

A noble head of horns. 

And in your lug, most reverend James, 

To hear you roar and rowte. 
Few men o' sense will doubt your claims 

To rank amang the nowte. 

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, 

Below a grassy hillock, 
Wi' justice they may mark your head — 

' Here lies a famous Bullock /' 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL 



O Prince ! O Chief of many throned Power's, 
That led th' embattled Seraphim to war. — Milton. 



O THOU ! whatever title suit thee, 

Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha in y^n cavern grim an' sootie, 

Clo V n.An ti'- ^, 
Spairges abo-i- ^h*^ ■••unscane cootie, 

To scaud poor wretches 

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee. 
An' let poor damned bodies be ; 



* Neiv Light is a cant phrase in the West of Scr«- 
land, for those religious opinions wnich Dr. Taylor of 
Norwich has defended so strenuously. 






^OEMS. '^ 


fm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, 


Is instant made no worth a louse, 


E'en to a deil, 


Just at the bit. 


To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me. 




An' hear us squeel ! 


When thowes dissolve the snawy hoorc^ 




An' float thejinglin' icy-boord. 


Great is thy pow*r, an' great thy fame ; 


Then Water-kelpies haunt the foord, 


•'ar kend and noted is thy name; 


By your direction, 


An' tho' you lowin' heugh's thy hame, 


An' nighted Trav'llers are allured 


Thou travels far ; 


To their destruction. 


An' faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame, 




Nor blate nor scaur 


An' aft your moss- traversing Spunkies 




Decoy the wight that late and drunk is ; 


Wliyles, ranging like a roarin' lion^ 


The bleezin', curst, mischievous monkeys 


For prey, a' holes and corners tryin' ; 


Delude his eyes, 


Whyies on the strong-wingM tempest flyin*, 


Till in some miry slough he sunk is, 


Tirliug the kirks ; 


Ne'er mair to rise. 


Whyles, in the human bosom pryin', 




Unseen thou lurks. 


When Masons' mystic word an' grip, 




In storms an' tempests raise you up. 


I've heard my reverend Grannie say, 


Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, 


In lanely glens you like to stray ; 


Or, strange to tell ! 


Or where auld ruin'd castles gray, 


The youngest Brother ye wad whip 


Nod to the moon, 


Aff straught to hell ' 


.e fright the nightly wand'rer's way. 




Wi' eldritch croon. 


Lang syne, in Eden's bonuie yard. 




When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, 


When twilight did my Graunie summon. 


An' all the soul of love they shar'd, 


To say her prayers, douce honest woman ! 


The raptur'd hourj 


Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin' ! 


Sweet on the fragrant flowery swaird 


Wi' eerie drone ; 


In shady bovver : 


Or, rustlin', thro' the boortries comin', 




Wi' heavy groan. 


Then you, ye auld, snic-drawing dog I 




Ye came to Paradise incog, 


Ae -dreary, windy, winter night, 


An' played on man a cursed brogue. 


The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light, 


(Black be your fa* ly 


Wi' you, rnysel', I gat a fright, 


An' gied the infant world a shog, 


Ayont the lough ; 


'Maist ruined a' 


Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight. 




Wi' waving sough. 


D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 




Wi' reekit duds, and reestit gizz, 


The cudgel in my nieve did shake, 


Ye did present your snioutie phiz 


Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, 


'Mang better folk, 


When wi' an eldritch stour, quaick — quaick — 


An' sklented on the man of Uz 


Amang the springs. 


Your spitefu' joke ? 


Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake, 




On whistling wings. 


An' how ye gat him i' your thrall. 




An' brak him out o' house an' hall. 


Let WarJi>cks grim, an' wither'd hags, 


While scabs and blotches did him gall, 


Tell how wi* you on ragweed nags, 


Wi' bitter claw. 


They skim the muirs, and dizzy crags. 


An' lowsed his ill tongued wicked Scawl,, 


Wi' wicked speed ; 


Was warst ava ? 


And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, 




Owre howkit dead. 


But a' your doings to rehearse, 




Your wily snares an' fechtin' fierce, 


Tlience countra wives, wi' toil an' pain. 


Sin' that day Michael * did you pierce, 


May plunge an' plunge the kiru in vain ; 


Down to this time, 


For, oh ! the yellow treasure's ta'en 


Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, 


By witching skill ; 


In prose or rhyme. 


An' dawtit, twal-pint Ilawkie's gane 




As yell's the Bill. 


An' now, auld Cloots, I ken > _'re chiniriE 




\. certain Bardie's rantin', diinkin': 


Thence mvstjc k^r'^^ mak gvpdt ab ise. 


jOu • 'u.'t.. ess ^out ^M)i >^r r! ' -t; ''VV' 


Cm you:::r Ct :ani. n, in ,a k^eij, an' c.ouse ; 


T > :- .. >. • - 


W^ \ .ct vaiK.-!umei the uouse. 
By cantr' -» wi'-. 




Vide Milton, book vi. 



a6 



BURNS' WORKS 



But, faltli ' Le'U turn a corner, jinkin', 
And cheat you yet. 

But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie-hen! 

wad ye tak a thought &nd men' ! 
Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — 

Still hae a stake — 

1 m wae to think upon yon den, 

Even for your sake ! 



DEATH AND DYING WORDS 

OF 

POOR MAILIE, 

THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. 

AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE. 

As MaiUs, an' her lambs thegither, 
Were ae day nibbling on the tether, 
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, 
An* owre she warsled in the ditch ; 
There, groaning, dying, she did lie, 
When Hughoc* he came doytin by. 

Wi' glowrin' een, and lifted han's, 
Poor Hughoc like a statue Stan's : 
He saw her days were near-hand ended. 
But, wae's my heart I he could na mend it ! 
He gaped wide, but naething spak ! 
At length poor Mailie silence brak. 

' O thou, whase lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my waefu' case ! 
My dying words attentive hear. 
An* bear them to my Master dear. 

* Tell him, if e'er again he keep 
Aa muckle gear as buy a sheep, 
O, bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair ! 
But ca' them out to park or hill, 
An' let them wander at their will : 
So may his flock increase, an' grow 
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo' ! 

' Tell him, he was a master kin*, 
An' aye was guid to me an' mine : 
An* now my dying charge I gie him, 
My helpless lambs 1 trust them wi* him, 

* O bid him save their harmless lives, 
Frae dogs, an* tods, an' butchers' knives ! 
But gie them guid cow milk their fill, 
Till they be fit to fend themsel' ; 

An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, 
Wi* teats o' hay an' rips o' corn. 



* An* may they never learn the gaete 
Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets! 

To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal, 

At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. 

So may they, hke their great forbears. 

For mony a year come thro' the sheers : 

So wives will gie them bits o' bread. 

An' bairns greet for them when they're dead 

* My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir, 

bid him breed him up wi' care ' 
An' if he live to be a beast. 

To pit some havins in his breast ! 
An' warn him, what I winna name. 
To stay content wi' yowes at hame ; 
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots. 
Like ither menseless, graceless, brutes. 

' An' neist my yowie, silly thing, 
Guid keep thee frae a tether string • 
O, may thou ne'er forgather ujy 
Wi' ony blastit moorland toop : 
But aye keep mind to moop an' mell 
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel' ! 

* An' now, my bairns, wi' my last breath, 

1 lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith : 

An' when you think upo' your mither. 
Mind to be kin' to ane anither. 

* Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail 
To tell my master a' my tale ; 

An' bid him burn this cursed tether. 
An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blether.' 

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, 
And closed her een amang the dead. 



» A neebor herrt-callan. 



POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY 

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose ; 
Our bardie's fate is at a close. 

Past a' remead ; 
The last sad cape-stane o' his woes ; 

Poor Maine's dead ! 

It's no the loss o' warl's gear. 
That could sae bitter draw the tear. 
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed : 
He's lost a friend and neebor dear, 
In Mailie dead. 

Thro' a' the town she trotted by him ; 
A lang half-mile she could descry him ; 
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him. 
She ran wi' speed ; 
A friend mair faith fu' ne'er cam nigh him, 
Than Mailie dead. 

I wat she was a sheep o' sense. 
An' could behave hersel' wi' mense . 
I'll say't, she never brak a fence. 

Thro' thievisn greed. 



POEMS. 



17 



Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence 

Sin' ^faille's dead. 

Or, if he wanders up the ho we, 
Her living image in her yowe, 
Comes bleating to him owre the knowe,, 

For bits o' bread ; 
An' down the briny pearls vowe 

For MaiJie dead. 

She was nae get o' moorland tips, 
Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips: 
For her forbears were brought in ships 

Frae yont the Tweed ! 
A homner Jleesh ne'er cross'd the clips 
Than Mailie dead. 

Wae worth the man wha first did shape 
That vile, wanchancie thing — a rape ! 
It maks guid fellows girn an' gape, 

Wi' chokin' dread ; 
An' Rohin's bonnet wave wi' crape, 

For Mailie dead. 

O, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon ! 
An' wha on Ayr your chaunters tune ! 
Come, join the melancholious croon 

O' Rohin's reed ! 
His heart will never get aboon 

His Mailie dead. 



TO J. S- 



Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul ! 
Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society ! 
I owe thee much !- Blair. 



Dear S- 



the sleest, paukie thief, 



That e'er attempted stealth or rief, 
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef 

Owre human hearts ; 
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief 

Against your arts. 

For me, I swear by sun an' moon, 
And every star that blinks aboon, 
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon, 

Just gaun to see you : 
And every ither pair that's done, 

Mair taen I'm wi' you. 

That auld capricious carlin. Nature, 
To mak amends for scrimpit stature. 
She's tuin'd you aff, a human creature 

On httr first plan, 
And in her freaks, on every feature, 

She's wrote, the Man 

Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme, 
My barmie noddle's working prime, 
My fancy yerkit up sublime 

Wi' hasty summon 5 



Hae ye 



leisure moment's time 

To hear what's comin' ? 



Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash ; 
Some rhyme (vain thought \) for needfa' cash, 
Some rhyme to court the countra clash, 

An' raise a din ; 
For me an aim I ne/er fash ; 

1 rhyme for fun. 

The star that rules my luckless lot. 
Has fated me the russet coat. 
An' damned my fortune to the groat : 

But in requit, 
Has bless'd me wi' a random shot 

O' countra wit. 

This while my notion's taen a skletit, 
To try my fate in guid black prent ; 
But still the mair I'm that way bent, 

Something cries * Hoolie ' 
I red you, honest man, tak tent ! 

Ye'll shaw your folly. 

' The!^e's ither poets, much your betters, 
Far seen in Greek, deep men 0' letters, 
Hae thought they had ensured their debtors, 

A' future ages ; 
Now moths deform in shapeless tetters, 

Their unknown pages. 

Then fareweel hopes 0' laurel-boughs, 
To garland my poetic brows ! 
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs 

Are whistling thrang, 
An' teach the lanely heights an' howes 

My rustic sang. 

I'll wander on, with tentless heed 
How never-halting moments speed. 
Till fate vshall snap the brittle thread ; 

Then, all unknown, 
I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead. 

Forgot and gone ! 

But why 0' death begin a tale ? 
Just now we're living, sound an' hale, 
Then top and maintop crowd the sail. 

Heave care o'er side ■ 
And large, before enjoyment's gale. 

Let's tak' the tide. 

This life, sae for's I understand, 
Is a' enchanted fairy land. 
Where pleasure is the magic wand. 

That, wielded right, 
Maks hours like minutes, hand, in hand, 

Dance by fu' light. 

The magic-wand then let us wield ; 
For ance that five-an'-forty's speel'd. 
See crazy, weary, joyless, eild, 

Wi' wrinkled face, 
Comes hostin', hirplin', owre the field, 

Wi' creepin' pace. 



18 



BURNS' WORKS. 



When ance lifes day oraws near the gloamin'. 
Then f'iueweel vacant careless roamin' ; 
An' faieweel cheerfu' tankards foamin', 

An' social noise ; 
An' fareweel dear deluding wornan^ 

The joy of joys! 

O Life ! how pleasant in thy morning, 
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning i 
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning, 

We frisk away, 
Like school-boys, at the expected warning, 

To joy and play. 

We wander there, we wander here. 
We eye the rose upon the brier. 
Unmindful that the thorn is near, 

Amang the leaves ; 
And though the puny wound appear, 

Short while it grieves. 

Some, lucky, find a flowery spat, 
For which they never toiled nor swat, 
They drink the sweet and eat the fat, 

But care or pain ; 
And haply eye the barren kut 

With high disdain. 

With steady aim, some Fortune chase ; 
Keen hope does every sinew brace : 
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, 

An seize the prey : 
Then cannie, in some cozie place, 

They close the day. 

An' others like your humble servan', 
Poor wights nae rules nor roads observin' ; 
To right or left, eternal swervin', 

They zig-zag on ; 
Till curst wi' age, obscure an' starvin', 

They aften groan. 

Alas ! what bitter toil an' straining — 
But truce with peevish poor complaining ! 
Is Fortune's fickle Luna waning ? 

E'en let h'^r gang ! 
Beneath what light she has remaining. 

Let's sing our sang. 

My pen I here fling to the door. 
And kneel, * Ye pow'rs !' and warm implore, 
' Tho' I should wander terra o'er. 

In all her climes, 
Grant me but this, I ask no more, 

Aye rowth o' rhymes. 

' Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds, 
Till icicles hing frae their beards : 
Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, 

An' maids of honour ; 
An' yill an whisky gie to cairds, 

Until they sconner. 

' A title, Dempster merits it, 
k garter gie to Willie Pitt ; 



Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, 
In cent, per cent 

But give me real, sterling wit, 

An' I'm content. 



"While 



ye are pleased to keep me hal8^ 
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
Be't water-brose or musUiL-kail, 

Wi' cheerfu' face, 
As lang's the muses dinna fail 

To say the grace.* 

An anxious e'e I never throws 
Behint my lug, or by my nose ; 
I jouk beneath misfortune's blows, 

As weei's I may » 
Sworn foe to sorrow, care, an' prose, 

I rhyme away. 

O ye douce folk, that live by rule, 
Grave, tideless-blooded, cahn and cool, 
Compar'd vi'i' you — O fool ! fool ! fool ! 

How much unlike ! 
Your hearts are just a standing pool. 

Your lives, a dyke ! 

Nae hair-brain'd sentimental traces 
In your unlettijr'd nameless faces ; 
In arioso trills and graces 

Ye never stray, 
But gravissimo, solemn basses 

Ye hum away 

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wtsej 
Nae ferly tho' ye do despise 
The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, 

The rattlin' squad : 
I see you upward cast your eyes — 

— Ye ken the road.— 

Whilst I — but I shall baud me there— 
Wi' you I'll scarce gang 07iy where— > 
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, 

But quat my sang, 
Content wi' you to mak a pair, 

Whare'er I gang. 



A DREAM. 



Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with 

reason ; 
But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason. 



[On reading, in the public papers, tlie Laureate's Ode, 
with the otlier parade of June 4, \1H6, the author 
was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined him- 
self transported to the birth-day levee ; and in hJ3 
dreaming fancy, made the following Address.^ 

I. 

Guid-mornin' to your Majesty I 
May heaven augment your blisses, 

On every new birth-day ye see, 
A humble poet wishes ! 

My hardship here, at your levee, 

On sic a day as this is, ^ 



POEMS. 



19 



fs sure an uncoutK sight to see, 
Amang the birth-day dresses 

Sae fine this day. 

II. 

I see ye're compli'mented thrang> 

By inony a lord an' lady, 
• God save the King !' 's a cuckoo sang 

That's unco easy said aye ; 
The poets, too, a venal gang, 

Wi' rhymes weel turn'd an' ready, 
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang. 

But aye unerring steady, 

On sic a day. 

III. 

For me ! before a monarch's face, 

Ev'n there I winna flatter ; 
For neither pension, post, nor place, 

Am I your humble debtor : 
So nae reflection on i/onr grace, 

Your kingship to bespatter; 
There's monie waur been o' the race, 

An* aiblins ane been better 

Than you this day. 

IV. 

Tis very true, my sov'reign king, 

My skill may wee], be doubted : 

But facts are chiels that winna ding. 

An' downa be disputed : 
Your royal nest, beneath your wing, 

Is e'en right reft an' clouted, 
4n' now the third part o' the string, 
An' less, will gaug about it 

Than did ae day. 

V, 

Far be't frae me that I aspire 

To blame your legislation. 
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire. 

To rule this mighty nation ! 
But, faith ! I muckle doubt, my Sire, 

Ye've trusted ministration 
To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, 

Wad better fiU'd their station 

Than courts yon day, 

VI. 

An' now ye've gien auld Sritain peace, 

Her broken shins to piaister ; 
Your sair taxation does her fleece, 

Till she has scarce a tester ; 
For me, thank God, my life's a lease, 

Nae bargain wearing faster, 
Or, faith ! I fear, that wi' the geese, 

I shortly boost to pasture 

V the craft some day 

VII. 

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 

When taxes he enlarges, 
CAn' WilVs a true guid fallow's get, 

A name not envy spairges), 
hat he intends to nay your debt, 

An' lessen a' your charges • 



But, God-sake ! 7et nae saving Jit 
Abridge your bonnie barges 

An' boats this day. 

VIII. 

Adieu, my Liege ! may freedom geek 

Beneath yoiu' high protection ; 
An' may ye rax Corruption's neck. 

An' gie her for dissection ! 
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, 

In loyal, true affection, 
To pay your Queen, with due respect, 

My fealty an' subjection 

This great birth-daf , 

IX. 

Hail, Majesty ! Most Excellent / 

While nobles strive to please ye, 
Will ye accept a compliment 

A simple poet gies ye ? 
Thae bonnie bairutime, Heav'n has lent, 

Still higher may they heeze ye. 
In bliss, till fate some day is sent, 

For ever to release ye 

Frae care that day. 



For you, young potentate o' Wales, 

I tell your Highness fairly, 
Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling Sfl 

I'm tauld ye're driving rarely ; 
But some day ye may gnaw your nails, 

An' curse your folly sairly, 
That e'er ye brak Diana's pales, 

Or rattled dice wi' Charlie, 

By night or day. 

XL 

Yet aft a ragged co2vte's been known 

To mak a noble uiver : 
So, ye may doucely fill a throne, 

For a' their clish-ma-claver : 
There, him * at Aginamrt wha shone, 

Few better were or braver ; 
An' yet wi' funny queer Sir John,-f 

He was an unco shaver 

For monie a day 

XII. 

For you, right rev rend Osnabrug, 

Naue sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, 
Altho' a ribbon at your lug 

Wad been a dress completer : 
As ye disown yon paughty dog 
i That bears the keys of Peter, 
Then, swith ! an' get a wife to hug. 
Or, trouth, ye'll stain the mitre 

Some luckless day. 

XHI. 

Yoiing royal Tarry Breeks, I learu, 
Ye've lately come athwart her ; 



♦ King Henrv V. 

t Sir John Falstaff, vide Shakespeare. 



20 



BURNS' WORKS. 



A. glorious galley* stem tin stern, 
Weel ri2:g'(i for Venus' barter ; 

Bjt first hang out, that she'll discern 
Your hymeneal charter, 

Then heave aboard your grapple aim, 
An' large upo' her quarter, 

Come full that day. 

XIV. 

Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a', 

Ye royal lasses dainty, 
Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw, 

An' gie you lads a-plenty : 
But sneer nae Uritish hoys awa'. 

For kings are unco scant aye; 
An' German gentles are but sma'. 

They're better just than want aye 
On onie day. 

XV. 

God bless you a' ! consider now, 

Ye're unco muckle dautet ; 
But, ere the course o' life be thro'. 

It may be bitter sautet ; 
An' I hae seen their coqgie fou, 

That yet hae tarrow't at it ; 
But or the day was done, I trow, 

The laggen they hae clautet 

Fu' clean that da> 



THE VISION. 

BUAN FIRST. f 

The sun had closed the winter day. 
The curlers quat their roaring play. 
An' hunger'd maukin ta'en her way 

To kail-yards gre^ 
While faithless snaws ilk step betray 

Whare she has bew. 

The thresher's weary flingin-tree 
The lee-lang day had tired me : 
And whan the day had closed his e'e. 

Far i' the west, 
Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, 

I gaed to rest. 

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek, 
That fiU'd wi' hoast-provoking sraeek, 

The auld clay biggi* 
An' heard the restless rattons squeak 

About the riggin'. 

All in this mottie, misty clime, 
I backward mus'd on wasted time, 
IIow I had spent my youthfu' prime, 

An* done nae-thin?. 



♦ Alluding to the newspaper account of a cevtain 
royal sailor's amour. 

t Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different divisions 
Df a digressive poem. See his Ca//t-Lorfa, vol. 1. of 
M'Pherson'i translation. 



But stringin' blethers up in rhyme 

For fooLs to sing. 

Had I to guid advice but harkit, 
I might, by this, hae led a market, 
Or strutted in a bank and clarkit 

My cash account : 
While here, half-mad, hilf-fed, half-sark^ 
Is a' th' amount. 

I started, mutt'ring, blockhead! c/,/' 
And heav'd on high my wauki*: loc-f. 
To swear by a' yon starry re of. 

Or sr>-ne Ta.^\i. a^ib, 
That I, henceforth, wo'-ld l>e my-ne-pr^' 
Til) xnj [apA breath— 

Wlien click ! tne st' av^ th^ sneck did dr>v 
An' jee ! the doo; g'.ed co the wa' ; 
An* by my ing'.:-' >vv . J saw, 

Now bleezin bright, 
A tight ju .(a .d" ^1) Hizzie braw, 

Come full in sight 

Ye r.eeA p-i doubt, I held my whisht 
Tke iiiftnt alth hali-form'd was crush't ; 
I g'oy /<■'■ a'^ eerie's I'd been dusht 

In some wild glen ; 
vP}i<r i p.\v<"3t, like modest worth, she blush't, 

And stepped ben. 

Green, slender, leaf-clad li oily-boughs, 
Were twisted gracefu' I'ound her brows; 
1 1 took her for some Scottish Muse, 
I By that same token ; 

I An' come to stop those reckless vows, 
I Would soon been broken. 

A ' hair-brain'd, sentimental trace' 
Was strongly marked in her face ; 
I A wildly-witty, rustic grace 
I Shone full upon her ; 

j Her eye, ev*n turn'd on empty space, 
' Beam'd keen with honoui 

Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen, 
Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; 
And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean 

Could only pear it ; 
Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, 
Nane else cam near it. 

Her mantle large, of greenish hue. 
My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 
Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, thuew 

A lustre grand ; 
And seem'd to my astonish'd view, 

A icell know'.i fend. 

Here, rivers in the sea were lost : 
There, mountains to the skies were tost : 
Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast, 

With surging foam ; 
There, distant shone Art's lofty boast. 

The lordly dome. 



POEMS. 



21 



Aei\^ Doon poai*'d down his tar-fetcli'd floods; 
There, well-fed Invine stately thuds : 
Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods. 

On to the shore ; 
And many a lesser torrent scuds, 

With seeming roar. 

Low, in a sandy valley spread, 
An ancient borovgh reai'd her head ; 
Still, as in Scottish story read, 

She ])oasts a race, 
To every nobler virtue bred. 

And polish'd grace. 

By stately tow'r or palace fair. 
Or rains pendent in the air, 
Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 

I could discern ; 
.Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare, 

With feature stern. 

My heart did glowing transport feel, 
To see a race * heroic wheel. 
And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel 

In sturdy blows ; 
While back-recoiling seem'd to reel 

Their suthron foes. 

His Country's Saviour,! mark him well ! 
Bold Richardtons \ heroic swell ; 
The chief on Sark § who glorious fell, 

in high command ; 
And he whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 

There, where a sceptred Pictish shade |1 
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
I mark'd a martial race pourtray'd 

In colours strong ; 
Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd 

They strode along. 

Thro' many a wild, romantic grove,^ 
Near many a hermit-fancy'd cove, 
(Fit haunts for friendship or for love 

In musing mood), 
An aged Judge, I saw him rove. 

Dispensing good. 

With deep-struck reverential awe,** 
The learned sire and son I saw. 
To Nature's God and Nature's law 

They gave their lor^, 



* The Wallaces. j William Wallace. 

^ Adam Wallace, of Richardton, cousin to the im- 
mortal preserver of Scottish independence. 

§ Wallace, Laird of Craigie, who was second in com- 
mand, under Douglas Earl of Ormond, at the famous 
battle on the banks of Sark, fought aimo 1448. That 
glorious victory was princi])ally owing to the judicious 
conduct and intrepid valour of the gallant Laird of 
Craigie, who died of his wounds after the action. 

II Coilus, King of the Picts, from whom the district 
of Kyle is said to take its name, lies buried, as tradi 
tion says, near the family-seat of the IVIontgomeries of 
Coilsfield, where his burial- place is still shown. 

% Barskimming, the seat ot the late Lord Justice- 
Clerk. 

** Catrine, the s^at of th late Dc<'tor, and present 
Proff ssor Stewart. 



This, all its source and end to draw. 
That, to adore. 

Brydon's brave ward * I well could spf „ 
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eve, 
Who call'd on Fame, low standing by. 

To hand him on, 
Where j..Viny a patriot-name on high, 

And hero shone. 



DUAN SECOND. 

With musing-deep, astonish'd stare, 
I view'd the heav'nly-seeming/a/r,- 
A whisp'ring throb did witness bear, 

Of kindred sweet, 
When with an elder sister's air 

She did me greet. 

* All hail ! my own inspired bard I 
In me thy native muse regard ; 

Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard. 

Thus pooily low, 

I come to give thee such reward 
As we bestow 

' Know, the great geniiis of this land 
Has many a light, aerial band. 
Who, all beneath his high command. 

Harmoniously, 
As arts or arms they understand. 

Their labours ply 

' They Scotia's race among them share j 
Some fire the soldier on to dare ; 
Some rouse the patriot up to bare 

Corruption's heart : 
Some teach the bard, a darling care. 

The tuneful art. 

* 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, 
They, ardent, kindling spirits pour ; 

Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar. 

They, sightless, stand, 

To mend the honest patriot-lore, 

And grace the hand. 

' And when the bard, or hoary sage, 
Charm or instruct the future age', 
They bind the wild poetic rage 

In energy. 
Or point the inconclusive page 

Full on the eye. 

' Hence Fidlarton, the brave and ycung ; 
Hence Dempster'' s zeal-inspired tongue ; 
Hence sweet harmonious Beuttie sung 

His " Minstrel lays ;" 
Or tore, with noble ardour stung. 

The sceptic's bays. 

' To lower orders are assign'd 
The humbler ranks of huraan-kmd. 



I I 



Colonel Fullarton. 



22 



BURNS' WORKS 



The rustic Bard, the lab'ring Hind, 

The Artisan ; 
All choose, as various they're inclin'd, 

The various man. 

< When yellow waves the heavy grain, 
The threat'fiing storm some strongly rein ; 
Some teach to meliorate the plain, 

With tillage skill ; 
And some instruct the shepherd-train. 
Blithe o'er the hill. 

* Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 
Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; 
Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil. 

For humble gains, 
And make his cottage scenes beguile 

His cares and pains. 

' Some bounded to a district-space. 
Explore at large man's infant race, 
To mark the embryotic trace 

Of rustic Bard ; 
And careful note each op'ning grace, 

A guide and guard. 

* Of these am I — Coila my name ; 
And this district as mine I claim, 
Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame. 

Held ruling pow'r : 
I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame, 
Thy natal hour. 

' With future hope, I oft would gaze. 
Fond on thy little early ways, 
Thy rudely caroll'd, chiming phrase. 

In uncouth rhymes, 
Fired at the simple, artless lays 

Of other times. 

' I saw thee seek the sounding shore. 
Delighted with the dashing roar ; 
Or when the north his fleecy store 

Drove thro' the sky, 
I saw grim Nature's visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. 

* Or when the deep-green mantled earth 
Warm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth, 
And joy and music pouring forth 

In ev'ry grove, 
I saw thee eye the general mirth 

With boundless love. 

• * When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, 
Call'd forth the reaper's rustling noise, 
I saw thee leave their ev'ning joys, 

And lonely stalk, 
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 

In pensive walk. 

* When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, 
Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along. 

Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 
Th adored NamCf 



I taught tliee how to pour in song. 

To soothe thy flame. 

' I saw thy pulse's maddening play. 
Wild send thee Pleasure's devious way, 
Misled by Fancy's meteor ray. 

By Passion driven ; 
But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from heavea, 

' I taught thy manners-painting strains. 
The loves, the ways of simple swains 
Till now, o'er all ray wide domains 

Thy fame extends ; 
And some, the pride of Coila's plains. 

Become thy friends. 

* Thou canst not learn, nor can I show 
To paint with Thomson's landscape glow ; 
Or wake the bosom- melting throe. 

With ShenstoTui's art ; 
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow 
Warm on the heart. 

' Yet all beneath th' unrivall'd rose, 
The lowly daisy sweetly blows : 
The' large the forf^st's monarch throws 

His army shade. 
Yet gi-een the juicy hawthorn grows, 

Adown the glade> 

' Then never murmur nor repine ; 
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ; 
And trust me, not Potosis mine. 

Nor king's regard, 
Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 
A rustic Bard. 

' To give my counsels all in one. 
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; 
Preserve the dignity of Man, 

With soul erect ; 
And trust the Universal plan 

Will all protect. 

• And wear thou this,.' — she solemn said 
And bound the Holly round my head ; 
The polish'd leaves, and berries red. 

Did rustling play ; ' 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 
In light away. 



ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID 



RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 



My son, these maxims make r "-ul^ 
And lump them aye thegitb r j 

The Ri^nd Riff/tteous is a fool. 
The llij^-id fFhe anither j 



POEMS. 23 


'ITie cleanest corn that e'er was dight 


VII. 


May hae some pyles o' caff in ; 
Sae ne'er a fellow-ereatuie slight 


Then gently scan your brother man, 


• For random fits o' daffin.— 


Still gentler sister woman ; 


5o/omon.— Eccies. ch. vii. ver. 16. 


Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang, ! 




To step aside is human : 
One point must still be greatly dark, 




I. 


The moving wki/ they do it ; 


YE wha are sae guid yoursel, 


And just as lamely can ye mark, 


Sae pious an' sae holy, 


How far perhaps they rue it. 


Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 




Your neebour's fauts and folly ! 


VIII. 


Whase life is like d weel gaun mill, 


Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 


Supply'd wi* store o' water, 


Decidedly can try us. 


The heapit happer's ebbing still, 


He knows each chord — its various tone, 


And still the clap plays clatter. 


Each spring — its various bias : 




Then at the balance let's be mute, 


II. 


We never can adjust it ; 


Hear me, ye venerable core, 


What's done we partly may compute, 


As counsel for poor mortals, 


But know not what's resisted. 


That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door 




For glaikit Folly's portals ; 






I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, 
Would here propone defences, 


TAM SAMSON'S* ELEG^ 


Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, 
Their failings arid mischances. 




An honest man's the noblest work of God.— Pope- 


III. 

Ye see your state wi' t"heirs compared. 


l-T A c oiilri K c-#-mM t-'U.r^ T\.^'} I 




An' shudder at the niffer, 


Or great M' f thrawn his heel ? 


But cast a moment's fair regard, 


Or R if again grown weel 


What maks the mighty differ ? 


To preach an' read ? 


Discount what scant occasion gave, 


' Na, waur than a' !' cries ilka chiel, 


That purity ye pride in, 


' Tarn Samson's dead ! 


An' (what's aft mair than a' the lave) 




Your better art o' hiding. 


K lang may grunt an' grane. 




An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane, j 


IV. 


An' deed her bairns, man, wife, and wean. 


Think, when your castigated pulse 


In mourning weed ; 


Gies now and then a wallop, 


To death, she's dearly paid the kane, 


What ragings must his veins convulse, 


Tarn Samson's dead 


That still eternal gallop : 




Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, 


The brethren of the mystic level, 


Right on ye scud your sea-way ; 


May hing their head in woefu' bevel. 


1 But in the teeth o' baith to sail, 


While by their nose the tears will revel, 


1 It maks an unco lee-way. 


Like ony bead ! 




Death's gien the lodge an unco devel, 


V. 


Tam Samson's dead ' 


See social life and glee sit down, 




All joyous and unthinking. 


When winter muflSes up his cloak. 


Till, quite transmogrified, they re growK 


And binds the mire like a rock ; 


Debauchery and drinking : 


When to the lochs the curlers flock. 


O would they stay to calculate 


Wi' gleesome speed ; 


Th' eternal consequences ; 


Wha will they station at the cock ? 


Or your more dreaded hell to state, 


Tam Samson's dead ! 


Damnation of expenses ' 


He was the king 0* a' the core, 


VI. 


To guard, or draw, or wick a bore. 


Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, 




Ty'd up in godly laces. 


* When this worthy old sportsman went out last 
muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's 


Before ye gie poor /rai'% names, 


phrase, • the last of his fields !' and expressed an ar- 


Suppose a change o' cases ; 
A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, 


dent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this 


hint the author composed his eles^v and epitaph. 
t A certain preacher, a great favourite with the mil- 


A treacherous inclination — 


lion, f^ide the Ordination, Stanza 11. 


But, let me whisper i' your lug, 


:j: Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few 
who was at that time ailing. For him see also the Or 


Ye're aiblins 13.R temptation. 

1 


dination Stanza IX. 



24 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Or up the rluk, like Jehu roar, 

In time o' need ; 

IJut now he lags on death's hog-score, 

Tuin Samson's dead ! 

Now safe the stately sawmont sail, 
And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail, 
And eels weel kenn'd for souple tail, 

And geds for greed, 
Since dark in death's ^s/i-cree/ we wail, 

Tarn Samson dead ! 

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a' ; 
\"e cootie moorcocks, crousely craw ; 
Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw, 

Withouten dread ; 
Your mortal fae is now awa', " 

Tarn Samson's dead • 

That waefu' morn be ever mourn'd, 
Saw him in shootin' graith adorn'd. 
While pointers round impatient biirn'd, 

Frae couples freed ! 
But, och ! he gaed and ne'er retiirn'd ! 

Tarn Samson's dead I 

In vain auld age his body batters ; 
In vain the gout his ancles fetters ; 
In vain the burns came down like waters. 

An acre braid ! 
Now ev'iy auld wife, greetin', clatters, 

Tarn Samson's deaf 

Owre mony a weary hag he limpit, 
An' aye the tither shot he thumpit, 
Till coward death behind him jumpit, 
Wi' deadly feide ; 
Now he proclaims wi' tout o' trumpet, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

Wlien at his heart he felt the dagger, 
He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger, 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi' weei-aim'd heed ;- 
L — d, five !' he cry'd, an' owre did stagger 
Tarn Samson's dead ! 

ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither ; 
nk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father ; 
Yon auld grey stane, amang the heather, 
Marks out his head, 
Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming l)lether, 
Tain Samso7is dead ! 

There low he lies, in lasting rest : 
Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast 
Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest. 

To hatch an' breed 
Alas ! nae mair he'll them molest ! 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

When August winds the heather wave, 
And sportsmen wanden by yon grave, 
Three ■volleys let his mein'ry crave 

O pouther an' lead, 



I Till Echo answer frae her cave, 

\ Tam Samson's dead ! 

Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be I 
Is th' wish o' mony mae than me : 
He had twa fauts, or may be three. 

Yet what remead? 
Ae social, honest man, want we : 

Tam Samson's dead 



THE EPITAPH. 

Tam Samson's weel-worn clay here lies, 
Ye canting zealots, spare him ! 

If honest worth in heaven rise, 
Ye'll mend or ye won near him. 



PER CONTRA. 

Go, Fame, ami canter like a filly 
Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' KiUie," 
Tell every social, honest billie. 

To cease his grievin 
For yet unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, 

Tam Samsons livin 



HALLOWEEN, t 

[The following poem will, by many readers, be weU 
enough understood ; but for the sake of those who 
are unacquainted with the manners and traditions of 
the country where the scene is cast, notes are added, 
to give some account of tlie ])rincipal charms and 
spells of that night, so big with prophecy to the pea- 
santry in the West of Scotland. The passion of pry- 
ing into futurity makes a striking part of the history 
of human nature in its rude state, in all ages and 
nations ; and it may be some entertainment to a 
philosophic mind, if any such should honour the 
author with a perusal, to see the remains of it a 
mong the more unenliglitened in our own.] 



Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain. 
The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, Cimgenial to my heart. 
One native charm, than all the glc£s of art. 

Goldsmith 



Upon that night, when faiiies light, 
On Cassilis Downans ^ dance. 

Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze. 
On sprightly coursers prances; 

Or for Cohan the route is ta'en, 
Beneath the moon's pale beams ! 



• KiUie is a phrase the country folks sometimes use 
for Kilmarnock. 

t Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and 
other miseliief-inaking beings, are all abroad on their 
baneful midnight errands; particularlv those aeriaV 
people, the Fairies, are said on that night to hold a 
grand anniversary. 

t Certain little romantic, rockv, green hills, in the 
neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cas, 
«ili«. 




ilL [Hi^LLL®^^^ \K^\£, 



r 






POEMS. 25 




There, up the cove,* to stray an' rove 


VI. 




Amang the rocks and streams, 


The lasses staw frae 'mang tliem a 




To sport that night 


To pou their stalks o' corn ; * 
But Rab slips out, and jinks about, 




II. 


Behint the niuckle thorn : 




Amang the bonnie winding banks 


Ke grippet Nelly hard an' fast ; 




Where Doon rins, wimplin', clear, 


Loud skirl'd a' the lasses ; 




Where Bruce | ance rul'd the martial ranks, 


But her tap-pickle maist was lost, 




An" shook his Carrick spear, 


When kiuttlin' in the fause-house •f 




Some merry, friendly, countra folks, 


Wr him that night 




Together did convene, 






To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks, 


VII. 




An' baud their Halloween 


The auld guidwife's weel-hoordet nits^ 
Are round an' mnnd divided, 




Fu' blithe that night. 






And monie lads and lasses' fates. 




III. 


Are there that night decided : 




The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat. 


Some kindle, couthy, side by side, 




Mair braw than when their fine ; 


An' burn thegither trimly ; 




Their fac^s blithe, fu' sweetly kythe, 


Some start awa' wi' saucy pride, 




Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kin' : 


An' jump out-owre the chimlie 




The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs. 


Fu' high that night. 




Weel knotted on their garten, 






Some unco blate, an' some wi' ga s, 


VIII. 




Gar lasses' hearts gang startin' 


Jean slips in twa wi' ten tie e'e ; 




Whyles fast at night. 


Wha 'twas, she wadna tell ; 
But this is Jock, an' this is me, 




IV. 


She says in to hersel' : 




Then first and foremost, thro' the kail, 


He bleez'd owre her, and she owre him, 




Their stocks^ maun a' be sought ance ; 


As they wad never mair part ; 




They steek their een, an' graip an' wale. 


Till fuff! he started up the him. 




For nmckle anes and straught anes. 


An' Jean had e'en a sair heart 




Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift. 


To see't that night. 




An' wander'd thro' the bow-kail, 






An' pou't, for want o' better shift. 


IX. 




A runt was like a sow- tail. 


Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runty 




Sae bow't that night. 


Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie ; 
An' Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt. 




V. 


To be conipar'd to Willie : 




Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane. 


Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling, 




They roar an' cry a' throu'ther ; 


An' her ain tit it brunt it ; 




The vera wee things, todlin', rin 


While Willie lap, and swoor hy jing. 




Wi' stocks out-ovvre their shouther ; 


'Twas just the way he wanted 




An' gif the custoc's sweet or sour, 


To be that night. 




Wi' joctelegs they taste them ; 






Syne coziely, aboon the door. 


X. 




Wi' cannie care, they've plac'd them 


Nell had the fause-house in her min*. 




To lie that night. 


She pits hersel' an' Rob in ; 
In loving bleeze they sweetly join, 

Till white in ase they're sobbin' : 
Nell's heart was dancin' at the view, 








» A noted cavern near Colean-house, called The 
Cove of Colean ; which, as Cassilis Downans, is famed 




in country story for being a favourite haunt for fairies. 


She whi.sper'd Rob to look for't ; 




fThe famous family of that name, the ancestors of 






Robert, the great deliverer of his country, were Earls 
ofCarnck. 








ij: 'Ihe first ceremony of Halloween, is pulling each 
a stock, or plant of kail. They must go out, hand in 


* They go to the barn yard, and pull each, at three 
several times, a stalk of oats. If the third 'talk wanta 




hand, with eyes shi.t, and pull the hrst thev meet 
with ! Its being big or little, straight, or crooked, is 
prophetic of the size and shape of the grant object of 


the top-pic/c/e, that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, 
the party in question will come to the marriage-bed 
any thing but a maid. 




all their spells— the husband or wife. If any yird, or 


t When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too 
jreen, or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old tim- 
ber, &c. makes a large apartment in his stack, with an 




earth, stick to the root, that is tocher, or fortune ; and 




the taste of the custoc, that is the heart of the stem, is 




hidicative of the natural temper and disposition.— 
Lastly, the stems, or, to give them their ordinarv ap- 


opening in the side which is fairest exposed to the 
v/ind ; this he calls a fause-house. 

t Burning the nuts is a favourite charm. They name 
the lad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay them 
in the fire, and accordingly as they burn quietly toge- 
ther, or start from beside one another, the courst and 






pellation, the runts, are placed somewhere above the 
head of the door; and the Christian names of the peo- 






ple whom chance brings into the house, are, according 




to the priority of placing the runts, the names in ques- 




tion. 

I 


ssiie of the courtship will be. 







— ) 




26 BURNS 


' WORKS. 




Rob, stowlins, prie'd her bonnie mou, 


The si inPLM- had been cauld an* wat. 




Fu' cozie in the neuk for't, 


An' stuff was unco green ; 




Unseen tliat night. 


K.n' ay.' a ruutin kirn we gat. 
An* just on Halloween 




XL 


It fell that nigh* 




But Merran sat behint their backs, 






Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; 


XVL 




She lea'es them gashin' at their cracks, 


" Our stibblo-rig was Rab M'Graen, 




And slips out by hersel' : 


A clever, sturdy fallow ; 




She thro' the yard the nearest taks, 


He's sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean. 




An' to the kiln she goes then, 


That liv'd in Achmacalla : 




An* darklins graipit for the banks, 


He gat hemp-seed,* I mind it weel, 




And in the blue clue* throws then, 


An' he made unco light o't ; 




Right fear't that night 


But mony a day was bg himseV, 
He was sae sairly frighted 




XIL 


That vera night.* 




An* aye she win't, an' aye she swat, 






I wat she made nae jaukin ; 


XVII. 




Till something held within the pat. 


Than up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck, 




Guid L — d ! but she was quakin* ! 


An' he swoor by his conscience, 




But whether 'twas the Dei! himsel', 


That he could saw hemp-seed a peck ; 




Or whether 'twas a bauk-en, 


For it was a' but nonsense ! 




Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 


The auld guid- man raught down the pock 




She did na wait on talkin' 


An' out a haudfu' gied him ; 




To spear that night. 


Syne bad him slip frae 'mang the folk, 
Sometime when nae ane see'd him, 




XIII. 


An' try't that night. 




Wee Jenny to her Grannie says, 






*' Will ye go wi' me, grannie? 


XVIII. 




/'ll eat the applef at the glass, 


He marches thro' amang the stacks, 




I gat frae uncle Johnie :" 


Tho' he was something sturtin. 




She fuff't her pipe wi' sic a lunt, 


The graip he for a harrow taks, 




In wrath she was sae vap'rin'. 


An' haurls at his curpin : 




She notic't na, an aizle brunt 


An' ev'ry now au' then he says. 




Her bravv new worset apron 


" Hemp -seed I saw thee. 




Out thro' that night. 


An' her that is to be my lass, 
Come after me, and draw thee, 




XIV. 


As fast this night." 




" Ye little skelpie-limmer's face ! 






How daur ye try sic sportin', 


XIX. 




As seek the foul Thief ony place, 


He whistl'd up Lord Lennox' march, 




For him to spae your fortune ; 


To keep his courage cheery ; 




Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ! 


Altho' his hair began to arch, 




Great cause ye hae to fear it ; 


He was sae fley'd an' eerie : 




For monie a ane has gotten a fright, 


Till presently he hears a squeak. 




An' liv'd an' di'd deleeret 


An' then a grane an' gruntle ; 




On sic a night. 


He by his shouther gae a keek. 
An' tumbl'd wi' a wintle 




XV. 


Out-owre that night. 




" Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor, 






I mind 't as weel's yestreen, 


XX. 




I was a gilpey then, I'm sure 


He roar'd a horrid murder shout, 




I was na past fyfteen : 


In dreadfu' desperation ! 
An' young an' auld cam rinnin' out, 
To hear the sad narration ; 






* Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must 
strictly observe these directions: Steal out, all alone. 










to the Iciln, and, darkling, throw into the pot a clue of 


* Steal out unpercei ved. and sow a handful of hemp- 




blue yarn ; wind it in a new clue off the i Id one : and. 


seed ; harrowing it with any thing you can convenient^ 
]y draw after you. Repeat now and then, ' Hemp-seed 




towards the latter end, something will hold the thread. 




demand wh/i hands ? i. e. who holds? an answer will 


I saw thee; hemp-seed I saw thee; and hini (or her) 




be returned from the i<iln-iiot, by naming the Chris- 1 


that is to be my true-love, come after me and pou 




tian and sirname of your future spouse. ! 


thee.' Look over your left shoulder, and vou will se« 




t Take a candle, and go alone to a looking-glass ; ' 


the appearance of the person invoked, in the attitude 




eat an apple before it, and some traditions say, you 


of pulling hemp. Some traditions sav, ' come afcer 




should comb your hair all the time ; the face of your 


me, and shaw thee,' that is, show thyself: in which 




conjugal companion, to be, will be seen in the glass, as 


case it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing. 




if peeping over your shoulder. 


and say, ♦ come after me, and harrow thee.* 






i 



POEMS. 



21 



He svvoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, 
Or crouchie Merran Humpliie, 

Ti'\ stop ! she trotted tliro' tliem a' ; 
A>' wha was it but Grumphie 

Asteer that night ! 

XXL 

Meg fain wad to the barn hae gane, 

To win three ivedits o' naething ; * 
But for to meet the deil her lane, 

She pat but little faith in : 
She gies the herd a pickle nits, 

An' twa red cheekit apples, 
To watch, while for the ham she sets, 

In hopes to see Tarn Kipples 

That vera night. 

XXII. 

She turns the key wi' cannie thraw 
An' owre the threshold ventures ; 

But first on Sawnie gies a ca'. 
Syne bauldly in she enters ; 

A Tatton rattled up the wa'. 

An' she cry'd, L — d preserve her ! 

An' ran thro* midden-hole an' a', 



An' 



pray 



d wi' 



zeal and fervour, 
Fu' fast that night. 



XXIII. 

They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice ; 

Then hecht him some fine braw ane ; 
It chanc'd the stack he faddonCd thrice,^ 

Was timmer-prapt for thrawin' ; 
He taks a swirlieauld moss-oak, 

For some black, grousome carlin ; 
An' loot a wince, an' drew a stroke, 

Till skin in blypes cam haurlin' 

Aif's nieves that night. 

XXIV. 

A. wanton widow Leezie was, 

As canty as a kittlen ; 
But Och ! that night, amang ti shaws, 

She got a fearfu' settlin' I 
She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn. 

An' owre the hill gaed scrievin', 
Whare three lairds' lands met at a hurn,\ 

To dip her left sark-sleeve in. 

Was bent that night. 



XXV. 

Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, 

As thro' the glen it wimpl't ; 
Whyles round a rocky scar it strays ; 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cookit underneath the biaes, 

Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that nigtt. 

XXVI. 

Amang the brackens, on the brae, 

Between her an' the moon, 
The deil, or else an outler quey. 

Gat up an' gae a croon : 
Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool ; 

Ne'er lavrock-height she jumpit, 
But mist a fit, an' in the pool 

Out-owre the lugs she plurapit, 

Wi' a plunge that night. 

XXVII. 

In order, on the clean hearth-stane, 

The luggies three* are ranged, 
And ev'ry time great care is ta'en, 

To see them duly changed : 
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys 

Sin' Mar' s-year did desire. 
Because he gat the toom-dish thrice. 

He heav'd them on the fire. 

In wrath that night. 

XXVIII. 

Wi' mei'ry sangs, an' friendly cracks, 

I wat they did na weary ; 
An' unco tales, and funnie jokes. 

Their sports were cheap an' cheery : 
Till buttered s6'ns,-\- wi' fragrant lunt. 

Set a' their gabs a-steerin' ; 
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, 

They parted afFcareerin' 

Fu' blithe that night. 



* This charm must likewise be performed unper 
ceived, and alone. You go to the barn, and open both 
doors, taking them off the hinges, if possible; for theie 
is danger, that the being about to appear, may shut 
the doors, and do you some mischief. Then take that 
instrument used in winnowing the corn, which, in our 
country dialect, we call a weclit, and go through all the 
attitudes of letting down corn against the wind. Re- 
peat it three times ; and the third time an apparition 
will pass through the barn, in at the windy door, and 
out at the other, having both the figure in question, 
and the appearance or retinue, marking the employ- 
ment, or station in life. 

f Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed, to 
Beur-stiick, and fathom it three times round. 1 he 
last fathom of the last time you will catch in your 
arms the appearance of your future conjugal yoke 
fellow. 

ij: You ^r) out, one or more, for this is a social spell, 
lo a south mning spring or rivulet, where ' three 
lairdu' lands meet,' and dip your left shirt sleeve. Go 



to bed in sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve be- 
fore it to dry. Lie awake ; and some time near mid- 
night, an apparition, having the exact figure of the 
grand object m question, will come and turn the sleeve 
as if to dry the other side of it. 

* Take three dishes, put clean water in one, foul 
water in another, leave the third empty ; blindfold a 
person, and lead him to the hearth where the dishes 
are ranged: he (or she) dips the left hand; if by 
chance in the clean water, the future husband or wife 
will cuine to the bar of matrimony a maid ; if in the 
foul, a widow ; if in the empty dish, it foretells, with 
equal certainty, no marriage at all. It is repeated 
three times, and every time the arrangemert of the 
dishes is altered. 

t Sowens, with butter instead of milk Ic them, ia 
always the Halloween Supper. 



1 


28 BURNS' 


! ! 
WORKS. 


THE 


Wlien thou was corn't, an' I was raelloWj 




We took the road aye like a swallow : 


AULD FARMER'S 


At JBrooses thou had ne'er a fellow, 


UEW-TEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS 


For pith an' speed ; 




But ev*ry tail thou ])ay't them hollow, 


AULD MARE MAGGIE, 


Whare'er thou gaed. 


ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPPOF CORN 


The sma', droop- rumpl't, hunter cattle, 


TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR. 


Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; 




But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, 


A Guid New- Year I wish thee, Blaggie ! 


An' gar't them whaizle ; 


Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie : 


Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle 


Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, an' knaggie, 


0' saugh or hazel. 


I'vn seen the day, 




Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie 


Thou was a noble fittie-lan, 


Out-owre the lay. 


As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ; 




Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun, 


Tho* now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, 


On guid March weather, 


An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, 


Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han', 


I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, an' glaizie, 


For days thegither. 


A bonnie gray : 




He should been tight that daur't to raize th3e, 


Thou never braindg't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit 


Ance in a day. 


But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, 




An' spread abreed thy weel- tiU'd brisket, 


Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 


Wi' pith an' pow'r, 


k filly buirdJy, steeve, an' swank, 


Till spritty knowes wad rair't an' risket, 


An' set weel down a shapely shank 


An' slypet owre. 


As e'er tred yird ; 




An* could hae flown out-owre a stank, 


When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep. 


Like onie bird. 


An' threaten'd labour back to keep. 




I gied thy cog a wee bit heap 


It's now some nine-an'-twenty year, 


Aboon the timmer : 


Sin' thou was my guid father's meere ; 


I ken'd my Maggie wadna sleep 


He gied me thee, o' tocher clear. 


For that, or simmer. 


An' fifty mark ; 




Tho* it was sma*, 'twas weel-wou gear, 


In cart or car thou never reestit ; 


An' thou was stark. 


The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it ; 




Thou never lap, and sten t, and breastit, 


When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 


Then stood to blaw ; 


Ye then was trottin' wi' your minnie : 


But just thy step a wee thing hastit. 


Tho' ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie. 


Thou snoov't awa. 


Ye ne'er was donsie, 




But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie, 


My plevgh is now thy bairn-time a . 


An' unco sonsie. 


Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw ; 




Forbye sax mae, I've seli't awa, 


That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, 


That thou hast nurst : 


When ye bure hanie my bonnie bride : 


They drew me thretteen pund an' twa. 


An' sweet an' giacefu' she did ride. 


The vera warst. 


Wi' maiden air ! 




Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide. 


Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought. 


For sic a pair. 


An' wi' the weary warl' fought ! 




An' monie an anxious day, I thought 


Tho' now ye dow but hoyte an' hobble. 


We wad be beat ! 


An' wintle like a samount-coble. 


Yet here to crazy age we're brought. 


That day ye was a jinker noble, 


Wi' something yet. 


For heels an' win' ! 




An' ran them till the) a' did wauble, 


And think na, my auld, trusty servan , 


Far, far behin*. 


That now perhaps tliou's less deservin', 




An' thy auld days may end in starvin', 


Wlien thou an' I were young and skeigh, 


For my last fou, 


An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh. 


A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane 


How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh. 


Laid by for you. 


An' tak the road ! 




Town's bodies ran, an' stood abeigh. 


We've worn to crazy years thegither; 


An' ca't thee mad. 


We'll toyte about wi' ane anither ; 

_„..._ 1 


1 



Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether, 

To some hain'd rig, 

Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, 
Wi' sma' fatigue. 



POKMS. 

But, Och 



29 



TO A MOUSE, 

0>' TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE 
fLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785. 

"Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, 
O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na' start awa sae hasty, 

Wi' bicket-ing brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 

Wi' murd'ring pattle I 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union, 
A.n' justities that ill opinion 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion 
An' fellow-mortal ! 

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; 
What then ? poor beastie, thou man live ! 
A daimen icker in a thrave 

'S a sma' request : 
I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave. 

An' never miss't ! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 

Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' ! 

An' naething, now, to big a new ane, 

O' foggage green ! 

An' bleak December's winds ensuin', 

Baith snell an' keen ! 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wastt, 
An' weary winter comin' fast, 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast. 

Thou thought to dwell, 
Till crash ! the cruel ooulter past 

Out thro' thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble. 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, 

But house or hald, 
Tj thole the winter's sleety dribble, 

An' cranreuch cauld ! 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 
In proving foresight may be vain : 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men. 

Gang aft agley, 
An' lea'e us nought but grief an pain, 

For promis'd joy. 

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me ! 
The present only toucheth thee : 



I backward cast my e'e 

On prospects drear ; 
An' forward, though I canna see, 

I guess an' fear. 



A WINTER NIGHT. 



Poor naked wretclies, wheresoe'er you are. 
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm ! 
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides 
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you 
From seasons such as these ^—Shaksepean. 



When biting Boreas, fell and doure, 
Sharp shivers through the leafless bow'r ; . 
When JPhoebus gi'es a short-liv'd glower 

Far south the lift. 
Dim-dark' ning through the flaky show'r 

Or whirling drift : 

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked. 
Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked, 
While burns, wi' snawy wreaths up-choked. 

Wild -eddying swirl, 
Or through the mining outlet bocked, 

Down headlong hurl. 

List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle* 
I thought me on the ourie cattle, 
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle 

O' winter war. 
And through the drift, deep-lairing sprattle 

Beneath a scar. 

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing. 
That in the merry month o' spring, 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee ? 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, 

An' dose thy e'e? 

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd. 
Lone from your savage homes exil'd, 
The blood- stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd 

My heart forgets, 
While pitiless the tempest wild 

Sore on you beats. 

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, 
Dark muffled, view'd the dreaiy plain; 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, 

Rose in my soul. 
When on my ear this plaintive strain, 

Slow, solemn stole — 

' Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust 
And freeze, ye bitter-biting frost ; 
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows ; 
Not all your rage, as now, united, shows 

IMore hard unkindness, unrelenting, 

Vengeful malice unrepenting, 



so 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Than heaven-illumin'd man on brother man 
bestows ! 
See stern Oppression's iron grip. 
Or mad Ambition's gory hand, 
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 

Woe, Want, and Murder o'er a land ! 
Even in the peaceful rural vale, 
Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, 
How pampered Luxury, Flatt'ry by her side, 
The parasite empoisoning her ear, 
With all the servile wretches in the rear. 
Looks o'er proud property, extended wide ; 
And eyes the simple rustic hind. 

Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show, 
A creature of another kind, 
Some courser substance, unrefined. 
Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, 
below. 
Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe, 
With lordly Honour's lofty brow. 
The powers you proudly own ? 
Is there, beneath Love's noble nart:e. 
Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim. 

To bless himself alone ! 
Mark maiden-innocence a prey 

To love-pretending snares. 
This boasting Honour turns away. 
Shunning soft Pity's rising sway, 
Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs ! 
Perhaps, this hour, in Mis'ry's squalid nest, 
She strains your infant to her joyless breast, 
And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rock- 
ing blast ! 
Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down, 
Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 
Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate. 
Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 
[ll-satlsfy'd keen Nature's clam'rous call, 

Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to 
sleep. 
While thro' the rugged roof and chinky wall. 
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap ! 
Think on the dungeon's grim confine, 
Where guilt and poor misfortune pine ! 
Guilt, erring man, relenting view ! 
But shall thy legal rage pursue 
The wretch, already crushed low 
By cruel Fortune's undeserved blow ? 
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress, 
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the 
bliss !' 

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer 

Shook off the pouthery snaw, 
And hail'd the morning with a cheer, 

A cottage -rousing craw. 

But deep this truth impressed ray uind — 

Thro' all his works abroad. 
The heart benevolent and kind 

The most resembles God. 



EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 



A BROTHER rOET. * 



January 



While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blav^ 
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, 

And hing us owre the ingle, 
I set me down to pass the time. 
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme. 

In hamely westlan' jingle. 
While frosty winds blaw in the drift, 

Ben to the chimla lug, 
I grudge a wee the great folk's gift, 
That live sae bien and snug : 
I tent less, and want less 
Their roomy fireside ; 
But hanker and canker. 
To see their cursed pride, 

IL 

Its hardly in a body's pow'r 
To keep at times frae being sour, 
To see how things are shar'd ; 
How best o' chiels are whiles in want, 
While coofs on countless thousands rant, 

An' ken na how to wair't : 
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head. 

Tho' we hae little gear. 
We're fit to win our daily bread, 
As lang's we're hale and fier : 
' Mair speir na, nor fear na'f 
Auld age ne'er mind a feg, 
The last o't, the warst o't, 
Is only for to beg. 

III. 

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, 
When banes are craz'd and bluid is thin, 

Is, doubtless, great distress ! 
Yet then, content could make us blest ; 
Ev'n then sometimes we'd snatch a taste 

Of truest happiness. 
The honest heart that's free frae a' 

Intended fraud or guile. 
However fortune kick the ba'. 
Has aye some cause to smile ; 
And mind still, you'll find still, 

A comfort this nae sma' : 
Nae mair then, we'll care then, 
Nae farther can we fa'. 

IV. 

What though, like commoners of air. 
We wander out we know not where, 

But either house or hall ? 
Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods. 
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground. 

And blackbirds whistle clear. 



* David Sillar, one of the club at Tarbolton, an^ 
author of a vohime of poems iH the Scottish dia.'ect> 
i Ramsav. 



POEMS. 31 


With tonest joy our hearts will bound, 


It warms tne, it charms me. 


To see tlie coming year : 


To mention but her name ; 


On braes when we please, then, 


It heats me, it beets me. 


We'll sit and sowth a tune ; 


And sets me a' on flame ! 


Syne rhyme tlU't, we'll time till't, 




And sing't when we hae done. 


IX. 




all ye Powers who rule above ! 


V. 


Thou whose very self art love ! 


It's no in titles nor in rank ; 


Thou knowest my words sincere ! 


It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, 


The life-blood streaming thro' my heart. 


To purchase peace and rest ; 


Or my more dear immortal part. 


It's no in making rauckle mair : 


Is not more fondly dear ! 


It's no in books ; it's no in lear, 


When heart-corroding care and grief 


To mak us truly blest ! 


Deprive ray soul of ifest, 


If happiness hae not her seat 


Her dear idea brings relief 


And centre in the breast, 


And solace to my breast. 


We may b", wise, or rich, or great, 


Thou Being, All-seeing, 


But never can be blest : 


hear my fervent pray'r ; 


Nae treasures, no^ pleasures. 


Still take her and make her 


Could make us rappy lang ; 


Thy most peculiar care ! 


The heart ay'es the part aye, 


X. 


That makes us right or wrang. 


All hail, ye tender feelings dear I 


VI. 


The smile of love, the friendly tear, 


Think ye that sic as you and I, 


The sympathetic glow ; 


Wha drudge and drive through wet an' dry 


Long since, this world's thorny ways 


Wi' never-ceasing toil ; 


Had numbered out my weary days. 


Think ye, are we less blest than they. 


Had it not been for you ! 


Wha scarcely tent us in their way, 


Fate still has blest me with a friend, 


As hardly worth their while ? 


In every care and ill ; 


Alas ! how oft in haughty mood, 


And oft a more endearing band. 


God's creatures they oppress ! 


A tie more tender still. 


Or else, neglecting a' that's guid, 


It lightens, it brightens 


They riot in excess ? 


The tenebrific scene. 


Baith careless and fearless 


To meet with, and greet with 


Of either heav'n or hell ; 


My Davie or my Jean. 


Esteeming and deeming 




It's a' an idle tale ! 


XI. 




0, how that 7iame inspires my style ! 


VII. 


The words come skelpin* rank and file, 


Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce ; 


Amaist before I ken ! 


Nor make our scanty pleasures less, 


The ready measure rins as fine, 


By pining at our state ; 


As Phoebus and the famous Nine 


And, even should misfortunes come, 


Were glowrin' owre my pen. 


I here wha sit, hae met wi' some. 


My spaviet Pegasus will limp. 


An's thankfu' for tl^em yet. 


Till ance he's fairly het ; 


They gie the wit of age to youth ; 


And then he'll hiltch, and stilt, and jimp^ 


They let us ken oursel' ; 


An' rin an' unco fit : 


They make us see the naked truth, 


But lest then, the beast thea, 


The real guid and ill. 


Should rue his hasty ride. 


Tho' losses and crosses, 


I'll light now, and dight now 


Be lessons right severe, 


His sweaty wizen'd hide. ] 


There's wit there, ye'll get there. 




Ye'll find nae other where. 




VIII. 


THE LAMENT, 


But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts ! 


OCCASIONED BY THECJNFORTUN ATE ISSUE F i- 


(To say aught else wad wrang the cartes. 


friend's amour. 


And'flatt'ry I detest) 
This life has joys for you and I ; 




' ' " " ^«\r 


And joys that riches ne'er could buy j 
And joys the very best. 


Alas ! how oft does Goodness wound itself 


And sweet Affection prove the spring of woe I— Home 


There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, 




The lover an' the frien' ; 


I. 


Ve hae your Meg, your dearest part, 


thou pale orb, that silent shines. 


And I my darling Jea/i / 


While care-untroubled mortals sleep ' 



\ 


52 BURNS' WORKS. 


Thou seest a wretch that inly pines, 


Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, hw. 


And wanders here to wail and weep ! 


Shall kiss the distant, westerr- main. 


With woe I nightly vigils keep, 




Beneath thy wan unwarming beam ; 


VIII. 


A^nd mourn, in lamentation deep, 


And when my nightly couch I try, 


How life and love are all a dream. 


Sore-harass'd out with care and grief, 




My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye. 


II. 


Keep watchings with the nightly thief: 


I joyless view thy rays adorn 
The faintly-marked distant hill : 


Or if I slumber, fancy, chief, 

Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright : 1 


I joyless view thy trembling horn, 
Reflected in the gurgling rill : 


Ev'n day, al!-bitter, brings relief, 
From such a horror-breathing night. 


My fondly-fluttering heart be still ! 


IX. 


Thou busy power, Remembrance, cease ! 


! thou bright queec, who o'er th' expanse 


Ah ! must the agonizing thrill 


Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway 


For ever bar returning peace ! 


Oft has thy silent-marking glance 




Observ'd us, fondly wandering, stray : 


. "I: 


The time, unheeded, sped away, 


No idly-feign'd poetic pains, 


While love's luxurious pulse beat high, 


My sad, love-lorn Umentings claim ; 


Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray. 


1 No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains ; 


To mark the mutual-kindling eye. 


No fabled tortures, quaint and tame : 




The plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; 


X. 


The oft-attested Powers above ; 


Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance set ! 


The promised Father's tender name; 


Scenes, never, never, to return ! 


These were the pledges of my love ! 


Scenes, if in stupor I forget, 




Again I feel, again I burn ! 


1 IV. 

1 Encircled in her clasping arms, 

How have the raptur'd moments flown ! 


From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn. 


Life's weary vale I'll wander thro' ; 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn 


How have I wish'd for Fortune's charms, 


A faithless woman's broken vow. - 


For her dear sake, and hers alone ! 




And must I think it ? is she gone, 




My secret heart's exulting boast ? 
And does she heedless hear my groan ? 


DESPONDENCY : 


And is she ever, ever lost ! 




V. 


AN ODE. 
I. 


Oh ! can she bear so base a heart. 


Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with cars. 


So lost to honour, lost to truth, 


A burden more than I can bear, 


As from the fondest lover part, 


I sit me down and sigh : 


The plighted husband of her youth ! 


life ! thou art a galling load, 


Alas ! life's path may be unsmooth ! 


Along a rough, a weary road. 


Her way may lie tiiro' rough distress ! 


To wretches such as I ! 


Then, who her pangs and pains will sooth ? 


Dim backward as I cast my view, 


Her sorrows share and make them less ? 


What sick'ning scenes appear ! 




What sorrows t/et may pierce me thro', 


VI. 


Too justly I may fear ! 


i Ye winged hours that o'er us past, 


Still caring, despairing. 


1 Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy 'd, 


Must be my bitter doom j 


Your dear remembrance in my bi-east, 


My woes here shall close ne'er. 


My fondly- treasur'd thoughts employ 'd. 


But with the closing tomb ! 


1 That breast, how dreary now, and void. 




1 For her too scanty once of room ! 


II. 


Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd. 


Happy ye sons of busy life. 


And not a wish to gild the gloom ! 


Who, equal to the bustling strife, 


1 


No other view regard ! 


VII. 


Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd. 


The morn that warns th' approaching day, 


Yet while the busy means are ply'd, 


Awakes me up to toil and woe : 


They bring their own reward : 


I see the hours in long array. 


Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight, 


That I must suffer, lingering, slow. 


Unfitted with an aim, 


"uU many a \r,uv^, aiifl many a throe, 


Meet ev'ry sad returning night. 


Keen recolU-ction's diretul trairi, 


And joyless morn the same ; 





POEMS. 



33 



You, bustling, and justling, 
Forget each grief and pain ; 

I, listless, yet restless, 
Find ev'ry prospect vain. 

III. 
HftW blest the solitary's lot, 
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot, 

Within his humble cell, 
The cavern wild with tangling roots, 
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits. 

Beside his crystal well ! 
Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought, 

By unfrequented stream, 
The ways of men are distant brought, 
A faint collected dream : 

While praising, and raising 

His thoughts to heav'n on high, 
As wand'ring, meand'ring. 
He views the solemn sky. 

IV. 

Than I, no lonely hermit placed 
Where never human footstep traced, 

Less fit to play the part ; 
The lucky moment to improve. 
And just to stop, a.nd just to move, 

With self-respecting art : 
But ah ! those pleasures, loves, and joys, 

Which I too keenly taste, 
The Solitary can despise, 
Can want, and yet be blest ! 
He needs not, he heeds not, 

Or human love or hate, 
Whilst I here must cry here, 
At perfidy ingrate ! 

V. 

Oh ! enviable, early days, 

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze, 

To care, to guilt unknown ! 
How ill- exchanged for riper times, 
To feel the follies, or the crimes. 

Of others, or my own ! 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, 

Like linnets in the bush, 
Ye little know the ills ye court. 
When manhood is your wish ! 
The losses, the crosses, 

'That active man engage ! 
The fears all, the tears all. 
Of dim declining age ! 



WINTER 



I. 

The wintry west extends his blast, 

And hail and rain does blaw ; 
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth 

The blinding sleet and snaw • 
Whil*' tumbling brown, tbo burn comes down, 

And roars frae bank to brae ; 



And bird and beast in covert rest. 
And piss the heartless day. 

IL 

" The sweeping l)last, the sky o'ersast," • 

The joyless winter-day, 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May : 
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, 

My griefs it seems to join, 
The leafless trees my fancy please. 

Their fate resembles mine ! 

III. 

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme 

These woes of mine fulfil, 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, 

Because they are Thy Will ! 
Then all I want (O, do thou grant 

This one request of mine ! ) 
Since to enjoy thou dost deny, 

Assist me to resign. 



COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 



INSCKIHED TO R. AIKEN, ESQ. 



Let not ambition mock their useful ton, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure i 

Nor grandeur hear, with a disilainful smile, 
The short and simple annals of the poor. — Gray. 



I. 

Mt lov'd, my honour'd, much respected 
friend ! 
No mercenary bard his homage pays : 
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end. 
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and 
praise : 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays. 

The lov/ly train in life's sequester'd scene ; 

The native feelings strong, the guileless 

ways ; [been ; 

What Aitken in a cottage would have 

Ah ! tho his worth unknown, far happier there^ 

I weea ! 

IL 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sough ; 
The short'ning winter-day is near a close; 
The miry beasts retreating fiae the pleugh ; 
The black'ning trains o' craws to their 
repose : 
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes. 

This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his 
hoes. 
Hoping the morji in ease and rest to spend. 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does 
hameward bend. 



* Dr. Young. 



12 



34 



BURNS' WORKS. 



III. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant wee things, toddlin, stacher 
thro' [an' glee. 

To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin' noise 
His wee hie ingle, blinkin' bonnily, 

His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifies 
smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 
Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, 
A id makes him quite forget his labour an' his 
toil. 

IV. 

Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in. 

At service out, amang the farmers roun', 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie 
rin 
A cannie errand to a neebor town ; 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman 
grown, 
In youthfu' bloom, love sparklin' in her e'e. 
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a bra' new 
gown, 
Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee. 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

V. 

Wi* joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet. 

An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : 

The ^ocial hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd 

fleet; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; 

The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; 

Anticipation forward points the view. 
The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears, 
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the 
new ; 
'l\iG father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

VI. 

Their master's an' their mistress's command, 

The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
And mind their labours wi' an eyedent hand. 

And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play : 
• An' O ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! 

An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 

Implore his counsel and assisting might : 
rhey never sought in vain that sought the 
Lord aright !' 

VIL 
But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door- ; 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same. 
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; 
Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his 
name. 
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; 
Weel pleas'd the motV^r hears it's nae wild, 
worthless rake. 



VlIL 

Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben ; 
A strappin youth ; l,e taks the mother's eye; 
Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 
The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and 
kye. [joy 

The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi 
But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel 
b?have ; 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sa« 
grave ; 
Weel pleas'd to think her hairns respected like 
the lave. 

IX. 

O happy love ! where love like this is found ! 
O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond com- 
pare ! 
I've paced much this weary mortal round, 

And sage experience bid^ me this declare— 
' If Heav'n a draught of heavenly pleasure 
spare. 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the 
ev'ning gale.' 

X. 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart— 
A wretch ! a villain ! losr to love and truth ! 
That can, with studied, siy, ensnaring ar^,, 

Betray sweet Jenny s unsuspecting youth I 
Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth! 
Are honour, virtue, coi;scIence all exil'd ? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their 
child ! 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distrac- 
tion wild? 

XI. 

But now the supper crowns their simple 
board, 
The halesomepa7'ri7cA, chief o'Sfco^za's food : 
The sowpe their only Hatvhie does afford. 
That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her 
cood : 
The dame brings forth in CA.7mpi'imental mood, 
To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck 
fell, 
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; 
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the 
bell. 

xn. 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 

The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace. 
The big ha'Sible, ance his father's pride . 

His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 

His lyart haff"ets wearing thin an' bare i 

Those strains that once did sweet ir> Zion 



POEMS. 



35 



He wales a portion witli judicious care ; 
And ' Ltt us worship God !' he says, with 
solemn air. 

XIII. 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest 

aim : [rise ; 

Perhaps Dundee's wild wai'bling measures 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name ; 
Or noble Elyin beets the heav'n-ward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compared with these, Italian trills are tame ; 

The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise ; 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

XIV. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 
How Abram was tht friend of Gon on high; 
Or, Mioses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie [ire ; 
Beneath the stroke of Heav'n's avenging 
Or, Job^s pathetic plaint, and waihng cry ; 
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or Goher holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

XV. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was 

shed ; [name. 

How He, who bore in Heaven the second 

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head; 

How his first followers and servants sped ; 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a 
How he, who lone in Patmos banished, [laud : 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
And heard great BaVlon's doom pronounced by 
Heaven's command. 

XVI. 

Then kneeling down to Heaven's eternal 

King, [prays : 

The saint, the father., and the husband 

Hope ' springs exulting on triumphant wing,* 

That thus they all shall meet in future 

There ever bask in uncreated rays, [days : 

No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 
In such society, yet still more dear ; 
While circling time moves round in an eternal 
sphere. 

XVII. 

Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, 

In all the pomp of method, and of art. 
When men display to congregations wide, 

Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! 
The PowW, incensed, the pageant will desert, 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
But hapiy, in some cottage far apart, 

May hear, well-pleased, the language of the 
soul ; 
Au'i :q his book of life the inmates poor enrol. 



♦ r ope's W indsor Forest 



XVIII. 

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
The parent pair their secret homage pay. 

And proffer up to He^iven the warm request, 
That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, 

And decks the lily lair in flow'iy pride, 
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, 

For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine 
preside. 

XIX. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeu? 
springs, 
That makes her loved at home, revered 
abroad ■. 
Princes and lor^s are but the breath of kings, 
" An honest man's the noblest work of 
God !" 
And certes, in %ir virtue's heav'nly road, 

The coltagi Jeaves the palace far behind ; 
What is a lordling's pomp ! a cumbrous load, 
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
Studied in acts of hell, in wickedness refined ' 

XX. 

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven ia 
sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, 
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet 
content ! 
And, O ! may Heav'n their simple lives pre- 
vent 
From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronet^ be rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
And stand a wall of fire around their much« 
loved Isle. 

XXL 

O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide, 
That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunt*-a 
heart ; 
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride. 
Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art, 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward .] 
O never, never, Scotia's realm desert ; 
But still the patriot and the patriot hard, 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and 
guai-d ! 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN 



I. 

When chill November's surly blast 
Made fields and forests bare, 

One ev'ning, a^ I wander 'd forth 
Along the banks of Ayr, 



36 

I spy'd a man, wb:)se aged step 
Seem'd weary, worn with care ; 

His face was furrow'd o'er with years, 
And hoary was his hair. 



Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou ? 

Began the rev'rtnd sage ; 
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain. 

Or youthful pleasure's rage ? 
Or, haply, prest with cares and woes. 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me, to mourn 

The miseries of man ! 

III. 

The sun that overhangs yon moors.. 

Out-spreading far and wide, 
W]\cre hundreds labour to support 

A haughty lordling's pride ; 
I've seen yon weary winter-sun 

Twice forty times return ; 
And ev'ry time has added proofs, 

That man was made to mourn. 

IV. 

O man ! while in thy early years. 

Hew prodigal of time ! 
Mis-spending all thy precious hours ; 

Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
Alternate follies take the sway ; 

Licentious passions burn ; 
Which tenfold force gives Nature's law, 

That man was made to mourn. 



Look not alone on youthful prime. 

Or manhood's active might; 
Man then is useful to his kind, 

Supported is his right : 
But see him on the edga of life. 

With cares and sorrows worn. 
Then age and want, Oh ! ill-match'd pair ! 

Show man was made to mourn. 

VI. 

A few seem favourites of fate, 

In pleasure's lap carest ; 
Yet, think not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest. 
But, Oh ! what crowds in every land, 

Are wretched and forlorn ; 
Thro' weary life this lesson learn. 

That man was made to mourn. 

VIL 

Many and sharp the num'rous ills. 

Inwoven with our frame ! 
More pointed still we make ourselves. 

Regret, remorse, and shame ! 
And man, whose heav'n -erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man 

ISIakes countless thousands mouri: 



BURNS' WORKS. 



VliL 

See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight. 

So abject, mean, and vile, 
Wlio begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil ; 
And see bis \oTd\y fellow-worm 

The poor pethion spurn, 
Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 

IX. 

If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave- 
By Nature's law design'd, 

Wh} was an independent wish 
E'er planted in my mind ? 

If not, why am I subject to 
His cruelty or scorn ? 

Or why has man the will and pow'r 
To make his fellow mourn? 

X. 

Yet, let not this too much, my son, 

Disturb thy youthful breast : 
This partial view of human-kind 

Is surely not the last I 
The poor, oppressed, honest man. 

Had never, sure, been born. 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn ! 

XI. 

O Death ! the poor man's dearest Men ^ 

The kindest and the best ! 
Welcome the hour my aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest ! 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow. 

From pomp and pleasure torn ; 
But, Oh ! a blest relief to those 

That, weary-laden, mourn ! 



A PRAYER 



IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. 



I. 

O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear ! 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour, 

Perhaps I must appear ! 

IL 

If I have wander'd in those patlH 

Of life I ought to shun ; 
As something, loudly, in my breast, 

Remonstrates I have done ; 

IIL 

Thou know'st that Thou hast formed i 
With passions wild and strong ; 

And list'ning to their witching voice 
Has often led me wrong. 



POEMS. 



3« 



IV. 

Where human weakness has come short, 

Or frailty stept aside, 
Do thou, All Good! for such thou art, 

In shades of darkness hide. 

V. 

Where with intention I have err'd. 

No other plea I have. 
But, Thoxi art good ; and goodness still 

Delighteth to forgive. 



STANZAS 

ON THE SAME OCCASION. 

Why am I loath to leave this earthly scene ? 
Have I so found it full of pleasing charms ? 
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill be- 
tween : 
Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewed 
storms : 
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ; 

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode ? 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; 
I tremble to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. 

Fain would I say, ' Forgive my foul offence !' 

Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
But, should my Author health again dis- 
pense, ^ 

Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; 
Again in folly's path might go astray ; 

Again exalt the brute and sink the man ; 
Then how shouM I for heavenly mercy pray. 

Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan ? 
Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation 



O Thou, great Governor of all below ! 

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to 
blow, 
Or still the tumult of the raging sea ; 
With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me, 
Those headlong furious passions to con- 
fine ; 
For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be, 

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line ! 
O aid me with thy help. Omnipotence Divine ! 



LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND S HOUSE ONE 
NIGHT, THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOW^ING 



VERSES, 



When for this scene of peace and ove, 
I make my prayer sincere. 

II. 

The hoary sire — the mortal stti ke, 
Long, long be pleased to spare, 

To bless his little filial flock, 
And show what good men are. 

III. 

She, who her lovely offspring eyes 

With tender hopes and fears, 
O bless her with a mother's joys. 

But spare a mother's tears ! 

IV. 

Their hope, their stay, their darling youth, 
In manhood's dawning blush ; 

Bless him, thou God of love and truth, 
Up to a parent's wish ! 



The beauteous, seraph sister-band. 

With earnest tears I pray. 
Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand, 

Guide thou their steps alway ! 

VI. 

When soon or late they reach that coast, 
O'er life's rough ocean driv'n. 

May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, 
A family in Heav'n ! 



IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. 



O THOU dread Pow'r, who reign'st above, 
I know thou wilt me hear. 



THE FIRST ^SALM. 

The man, in life wberever placed, 

Hath happiness in store, 
Who walks not in the wicked's way. 

Nor learns their guilty lore ! 

Nor fi-om the seat of scornful pride 

Casts forth his eyes abroad, 
But with humility and awe 

Still walks before his God. 

That man shall flourish like the trees 
Which by the streamlets grow ; 

The fruitful top is spread on high. 
And firm the root below. 

But he whose blossom buds in guilt 
Shall to the ground be cast, 

And, like the rootless stubble, tost 
Before the sweeping blast. 

For why ? that God the good adore 
Hath giv'n them peace and rest, 

But hath decreed that wicked men 
Shall ne'er be truly blest. 



BURNS' WORKS. 
A PRAYER, TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 



•TBBR THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. 

THOU Great Being ! what thou art 
Surpjisses me to know : 
t suie am I, that known to thee 
.we all thy works below. 

rhy creature here before thee stands, 

All wret(^hed and distrest ; 
Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 

Obey thy high behest. 

Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath ! 
O, free my weary eyes from tears, 

Or close them fast in death ! 

But if I must afflicted be, 

To suit some wise design ; 
Then man my soul with firm resolves, 

To bear and not repine. 



THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF 

THE NINETIETH PSALM. 

O THOU, the first, the greatest Friend 

Of all the human race ! 
Whose strong right hand has ever been 

Their stay and dwelling place ! 

Before the iK>ountains heav'd their heads 

Beneath thy forming hand, 
Before this pond'rous globe itself 

Arose at thy command ; 

That pow'r which rais'd, and still upholds 

This universal frame, 
From countless, unbeginning time, 

Was ever still the same. 

Those mighty periods of years, 

Which seem to us so vast, 
Appear no more before thy sight. 

Than yesterday that's past. 

Thou gav'ftt the word : Thy creature, man, 

Is to existence brought : 
Again thou say'st, ' Ye sous of men. 

Return ye into nought !' 

Thou layest them, with all their cares, 

In everlasting sleep ; 
As with a flood thou tak'st them oif 

With overwhelming sweep. 

They flourish like the morning flow'r^ 

In beauty's pride array'd ; 
But long ere night cut down, it lies 

All wither'd and decay'd. 



ON TURNING ONE D3WN WITK THE PL^'^QH, Ift 
APRIL, 1786. 



Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem ; 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 

Thou bonnie gem. 

Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
The bonny Larh, companion meet . 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 

Wi' spreckl'd breast, 
When upward-springing, blithe, to greet 
The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 
Upon thy early, humble, birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, 
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield ; 
But thou beneath the random bield 

O' clod or starve. 
Adorns the his tie stihhle-jield, 

Unseen, alane. 

V 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless Maid, 
Sweet floweret ot the rural shade ! 
By love's simplicity betray'd, 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple ]3ard, 
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd, 
Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er 

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n. 
Who long with wants and woes has striv ia« 
By human pride or cunning driv'n 

To mis'ry's brink. 
Till wrench'd of every stay but Heaven, 

He, ruin'd, sink ! 

I Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy s fate, 
I That fate is thine — no distant date: 



POEMS. 39 


Stern Rui-^'s ploughshare drives, elate, 


EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND 


Full on tliy bloom, 




Till crush 1 beneath tlie furrow's weight, 


MAY , 1 786. 


Shall be thy doom ! 


I. 




I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' Friend, 




A something to have sent you, 




Tho' it should serve nae other end 


TO RUIN. 


Than just a kind memento ; 




But how the subject-theme may gang, 


I. 


Let time and chmce determine ; 


All hall ! inexorable lord ! 


Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 


At whose destruction-breathing word, 


Perhaps turn out a sermon. 


The mightiest empires fall ! 


II. 

Ye'll try the warld soon, my lad, 
And, Andrew dear, believe me, 

Ye'll find mankind an unco squadj 
And muckle they may grieve ye : 

For care and trouble set' your thought, 


Thy cruel, woe-delighted train. 
The ministers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all ! 
With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye, 

I see each aimed dart ; 
For one has cut my dearest tie, 

And quivers in my heart. 


E'en when your end's attained ; 


Then low'ring, and pouring, 


An a' your views may come to nought, 
Where ev'ry nerve is strained. 


The storm no more I dread ; 


Tho' thick'ning and blackn'ing, 


III. 


Round my devoted head. 


I'll no sav, men are villains a' j 




The real, harden'd wicked, 


JI. 


Wha hae nae check but human law, 


And thou grim power, by life abhorr'd, 


Are to a tew restricted : 


While life a. pleasure can afford, 


But och, mankind are unco weak, 


Oh ! hear a wretch's prayer : 


An' little to be trusted ; 


No more I shrink appail'd, afraid ; 


If se//the wavering balance shake, 
Its rarely right adjusted ! 


I court, I beg thy friendly aid. 


To close this scene of care ! 




When shall my soul, in silent peace, 


IV. 


Resign Wiei joyless day ;' 


Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife 


My weary heart its throbbings cease, 


Their fate we should na censure, 


Cold mouldering in tbe clay ? 


For still th' imjwrtajit eiid of life 


No fear morcj no tear more, 


They equally may answer ; 


To stain my lifeless idce ; 


A man may hae an honest heart, 


Enclasped, and grasped 


Tho' poortith hourly stare him , 


Within my cold embrace ! 


A man may tak a neebor's part, 




Yet hae nae cash to spare him. 

V. 

Aye free aff han' your story tell. 
When wi' a bosom crony ; 


TO MTSS T 






But still keep something to yoursel' 


WITH BE-ATTIe's poems, AS A NEW-YEAr's GIFT, 


Ye scarcely tell to ony. 


JAN. 1, 1787. 


Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can 




Frae critical dissection ; 


Again the silent wheels of time 


But keek thro' every other man, 


Their annual round have driv'n, 


Wi' sharpen'd sly inspection. 


And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, 




Are so much nearer Heav'n. 


VI. 




The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd /ove, 


No gifts have I from Indian coasts 


Luxuriantly indulge it ; 


The infant year to hail ; 


But never tempt th' illicit rove, 


I send you more than India boasts 


Tho' naething should divulge it 


In Edwin ? simple tale. 


I wave the quantum o' the sin. 




The hazard of concealing ; 


Our sex with guile and faithless love 


But och ! it hardens a' within, 


Is charg'd, perhaps, too true ; 


And petrifies the feeling ! 


3ut may, dear maid, each lover prove 


VIL 

To catch dame Fortune's golden snuis^ 


An Edwin still to you ! 




Assiduous wait upon her j 





' 


40 BURNS' 


WORKS 


And gather gear ])y ev'ry wfle 


For now h»*» ta'en anither shore. 


That's justified by honour ; 


An* owre the tea. 


Not for to hide it in a hedge, 




Nor for a train-attendant ; 


The bonnie lassies weel may wiss him, 


But for the glorious privilege 


And in their dear petitions jjlace him ; 


Of })eing independent. 


The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, 




Wi' tearfu' e'e ; 


VIII. 


For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him, 


The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip 


That's owre the sea. 


To hand the wretch in order ; 




But where ye feel your honmir grip, 


Fortune, they ha'e room to grumble 


Let that aye be your border : 


Hadst thou ta'en aff some drowsy bumniel, 


Its slightest touches, instant pause — 


Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble, 


Debar a' side preteuces ; 


'Twad been nae plea 


And resolutely keep its laws, 


But he was gleg as ony wumble, 


Uncaring consequences. 


That's owre the sea. 


IX. 


Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, 


The great Creator to revere, 


An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear; 


Must sure become the creature / 


Twill mali' her poor auld heart, I fear. 


But still the preaching cant forbear, 


In flinders flee ; 


And ev'n the rigid feature : 


He was her laureat monie a year, 


Yet'tie'er with wits profane to range, 


That's owre the sea 


Be complaisance extended ; 




An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange 


He saw misfortune's cauld nor-ivast 


For Deity offended ! 


Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; 




A jillet brak' his heart at last, 


i X. 


111 may she be ! 


1 When ranting round in pleasure's ring, 


So, took a birth afore the mast. 


j Religion may be blinded ; 


All' owre the sea. 


Or, if she gie a random sting, 




It may be little minded: 


To tremble under Fortune's cummock, 


But when on life we're tempest-dri^'n, 


On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock. 


A conscience but a canker — 


Wi' his proud, independent stomach 


A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n, 


Could ill agree ; 


1 Is sure a noble anchor. 


So, row't his hurdles in a hammock, 




An* owre the sea. 


XI. 




1 Adieu, dear, amiable youth ! 


He ne cr was gi'en to great misguidiiig 


j Your heart can ne'er be wanting : 


Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; 


May prudence, fortitude, and truth, 


Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding ; 


Erect your brow undaunting ! 


He dealt it free : 


In ploughman phrase, ' God send you spe^, 


The muse was a' that he took pride in, 


Still daily to grow wiser ; 


That's owre the sea. 


And may you better reck the rede, x 




Than ever did th' adviser ! 


Jamaica bodies, use him weel, 




An' hap him in a cozie biel ; 




Ye'U find him aye a dainty chiel, 

And fu' 0* glee : 




ON A SCOTCH BARD, 


He wadnd wrang'd the vera deil, 

That's owre the sea. 


GONK TO THE WEST INDIES. 


Fareweel, my rhyme-composing hillie,* 




Your native soil was right ill-willie ; 


A' YE wha live by soups o' drin-k, 


But may ye flourish like a lily, 


A' ye wha .ive by crambo-clink, 


Now bonnilie ; 


A' ye wha live and never think, 


rU toast ye in my hindmost gillie, 


Come mourn wi' me ! 


Tho' owre the sea. 


Our hillie's gi'en us a' a jink, 

An' owre tlic sea. 






Lament him a' ye rantin core, 


TO A HAGGIS. 


Wha dearly like a random-splore, 




Nae mair he'll join the memj roar, 


Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face. 


In social key ; 


Great chieftain o' the puddin-race .' 


; 





POEMS. 



Aboon them a* ye tak your place, 

Painch, tripe, or thairm : 
Weel are ye wordy of a grace 

As lang's my arm. 

The groaning trencher there ye fill, 
Your hurdies like a distant hill, 
Your pin wad help to mend a mill 

In time o' need, 
While thro' your pores the dews distil 
Like amber bead. 

His knife see rustic labour dight, 
An* cut you up wi' ready slight, 
Trenching your gushing entrails bright, 

Like ouie ditch ; 
And then, O what a glorious sight, 

Warm-reekin', rich ! 

Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive, 
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, 
Till a' their weel-svvall'd kytes belyve 

Are bent like drums ; 
Then auld gujdman, maist like to ryve, 

Bethankit hums. 

Is there that o'er his French ragout, 
Or olio that wad staw a sow. 
Or fricassee wad mak her spew 

Wi' perfect sconner, 
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view, 

On sic a dinner ? 

Poor devil ! see him owre his trash, 
As feckless as a wither'd rash, 
His spindle-shank a guid whip-lash. 

His nieve a nit ; 
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, 

O how unfit ! 

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, 
The trembling earth resounds his tread, 
Clap in his walie nieve a blade, 

He'll make it whissle ; 
An* legs, an' arms, an heads will sued. 

Like taps o' thrissle. 

Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care^ 
And dish them out their bill o' fare, 
Auld Scotland wants na skinking ware 

That jaups in luggies ; 
But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, 

Gie her a Haggis I 



A DEDICATION. 



TO GAVIN HAaULTON, ESQ. 



Expect na, Sir. in this narration, 
A fleechin, fleth'riu dedication, 
To rooze you up, an' ca' you guid, 
An* sprung o' great an' noble bluid, 
Because ye're surnamed like his grace, 
Perhaps related to the race ; 



Then when I'm fired — and sae are ye, 
Wi' mony a fulsouie, sinfu' lie. 
Set up a face, hcTv . stop short. 
For fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do — maun do. Sir, wi' them wb« 
Maun please the great folk for a wamefu* ; 
For me ! sae laigh I need n a bow, 
For, Lord be thankit, I can plough; 
And when I downa yoke a naig, 
Then, Lord be thankit, / can beg ; 
Sae I shall say, and that's nae flatt'rin'. 
It's just sic poet an' sic patron. 

The Poet, some guiu mgel help hioi, 
Or t!se, I fear some ill ane skelpjiim ; 
He may do weel for a' he's done ye* 
But only he's no just begun yet. 

The Patron, ( Sir, ye maun forgie me, 
I winna lie, come what will o' me) 
On ev'ry hand it will allowed be. 
He's just — nie better than he should be. 

I readily and freely grant. 
He downa see a poor man want ; 
W^hat's no his am he wirma tak it. 
What ance he says he winna break it ; 
Ought he can lend he'll no refuse 
Till aft his goodness is abused ; 
And rascals whyles that do him wrang, 
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang ; 
As master, landlord, husband, father 
He does na fail his part in either. 

But then, nae thanks to him for a' that J 
Nae godlg symptom ye can ca' that ; 
It's naething but a milder feature, 
Of our poor, sinfu' corrupt nature : 
Ye'll get the best o' moral works, 
'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, 
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, 
Wha never heard of orthodoxy. 
That he's the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word and deed, 
It's no thro' terror of damnation ; 
It's just a carnal inclination. 

Morality, thou deadly bane, 
Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ; 
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is 
In moral mercy, truth, and justice ' 

No — stretch a point to catch a plack ; 
Abuse a brother to his back ; 
Steal thro' a winnock frae a wh-re, 
But point the rake that taks the door : 
Be to the poor like onie whunstane, 
And baud their uoses to the grunstane ; 
Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving ; 
No matter, stick to sound believing. 

Learn three mile pray'rs, an' half-mile grace^ 
Wi* weel-spread looves, an' lang wry faces ; 
Grunt up a solemn,' lengthen'd groan. 
And damn a' parties but your own ; 



12 



BURNS' WORKS. 



V\[ X¥xt;ant then, ye're uxe deceiver, 
A. steady, sturdy, staunch behever. 

O ye vvha leave the springs of Calvin, 
For gumlle dubs of your ain delvin ! 
Ye sons of lievesy and error, 
Ye'U some day squeel in quaking terror ! 
When vengeance draws the sword in wrath, 
And in the fire throws the sheath ; 
When ruin, with his sweeping besom. 
Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him : 
While o'er the harp pale Misery moans, 
And strikes the ever-deep'niiig tones, 
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans ! 

Your pardon, Sir, for this digression, 
I maist forget my dedication ,- 
But when divinity comes cross me. 
My readers still are sure to lose me. 

So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour, 
But I maturely thought it proper, 
When a' my works 1 did review, ■ 
To dedicate them, Sir, to You .• 
Because (ye need na tak it ill) 
I thought them something like yoursel*. 

Then patronise them wi' your favour, 
And vour petitioner shall ever — 
I had amaist said ever pray. 
But that's a word I need na say : 
For prayin' I hae little skill o't ; 
I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't ; 
But I'se repeat each poor man's prayer, 
That kens or hears about you. Sir — 

" May ne'er misfortune's gowliug bark, 
Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk ! 
May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart. 
For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! 

May K *s far honour'd name 

Lang beet his hymeneal flame, 

Till H s, at least a dizen. 

Are frae her nuptial labours risen : 
Five bonnie lasses round their table, 
And seven braw fellows, stout an' able 
To serve their king and country weel, 
By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! 
May health and peace, with mutual rays, 
Shine on the evening o' his days ; 
Till his wee curlie Johns ier-oe. 
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, 
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow !" 

I will not wind a lang conclusion, 
Wi' complimentary effusion ; 
But whilst your wishes and endeavours 
Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favours, 
I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent. 
Your much indebted, humble servant. 

But if (which Pow'rs above prevent !) 
That iron-hearted carl. Want, 
Attended in his grim advances, 
By sad mistakes, and black mischances, 



While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly h;m, 

Make you as poor a dog as I am, 

Your humble servant theu no more ; 

For who would humbly serve the poor ! 

But, by a poor man's hopes in Heaven ' 

While recollection's power is given. 

If, in the vale of humble life, 

The victim sad of fortune's strife, 

I, thro' the tender gushing tear. 

Should recognize my master dear. 

If friendless, low, we meet together, 

Then, Sir, your hand — my friend and brother 



TO A LOUSE 

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADy's BONNKT Jl • 
CHURCH. 

Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferlie ? 
Your impudence protects you sairly : 
I canna say but ye strunt rarely, 

Ovvre gauze and lace; 
Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 

On sic a place. 

Y? ugly, creepin', blastit wonner, 
Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner, 
How dare you set your fit upon her, 

Sae fine a lady ! 
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner 

On some poor body. 

Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle ; 
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle 
Wi' ither kindred, jumpin' cattle, 

In shoals and nations ; 
Whare horn nor bane ne'er dare unsettle 

Your thick plantations. 

Now hand you there, ye're out o' sight, 
Below the fatt'rils, snug and tight : 
Na, faith ye yet ! ye'll no be right 

Till ye've got on it, 
The vera tapmost, tow'ring height 

O' Miss's bonnet. 

My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nos> cat^ 
As plump and grey as ony grozet ; 

for some rank, mercurial rozet. 

Or fell, red smeddum, 
I'd gi'e you sic a hearty dose o't. 

Wad dress your drod^' \m ! 

1 wad na been surprised to spy 
You on an auld wife's flannen toy ; 
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 

On's wyliecoat ; 
But Miss's fine Lunardie ! fie. 

How dare ye do't ! 

O, Jenny, dinna toss your head, 
An' set your beauties a' abread ! 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

The blastie's makin* 1 



POEMS. 



4d 



Thae tnmks uml finger-ends, I dread, 
Are notice takiu' ! 

O wad .-iorne power the giftle gie us 

To see oursels as others see us ! 

It wad frae monie a blunder free us, , 

And foolish notion : 
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, 

And ev'n Devotion ! 



ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 



I. 

Edina ! Sentin^s darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and towers, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sovereign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 

II. 
Here wealth still swells the golden tide, 

As busy trade his labours plies ; 
There architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendour rise ; 
Here justice, from her native skies, 

High wields her balance and her rod; 
There learning, with his eagle eyes, 

Seeks science in her coy abode. 

Ill 

Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, 

With open arms the stranger hail ; 
Their views enlarged, their liberal mind^ 

Above the narrow, rural vale ; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 

Or modest merit's silent claim ; 
And never may their sources fail ! 

And never envy blot their name. 

IV. 

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn ! 

CJay as the gilded summer sky, 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn. 

Dear as the raptured thrill of joy ! 
Fair Burnet strikes th* adoring eye. 

Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine ; 
I see the sire of love on high, 

And own his work indeed divine ! 

V. 

Yhere, watching high the least alarms. 

Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar ; 
Like some bold veteran, grey in arms, 

And niark'd with many a seamy scar : 
The pon'drous wall and massy bar, 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock ; 
Have oft withstood assailing war, 

And oft repell'd the invader's shock. 



VI. 

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tearsj 

I view that noble, stately dome. 
Where Scotia''s kings of other years. 

Famed heroes, had their royal home. 
Alas ! how changed the times to come ' 

Their royal name low in the dust ! 
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam ! 

Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just ! 

VII. 

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, 

Whose ancestors in days of yore. 
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore • 
E'en / who sing in rustic lore. 

Haply 77ig sires have left Vneir shed, 
And faced grim danger's loudest roar. 

Bold-following where your fathers led 1 

VIII. 

Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
^\liere once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From maiking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr I* stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

T shelter'd in thy honour'd shade. 



EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, 

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD, APRIL 1st, 1785 

While briers an' woodbines budding green, 
An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en, 
An' morning poussie whiddin seen, 

Inspire my muse. 
This freedom in an unknown frien' 

I pray excuse. 

On fasten-een we had a rockin' , 
To ca' the crack and weave our stockin ; 
And there was muckle fun and jokin', 

Ye need na doubt : 
At length we had a hearty yokin' 

At sang about. 

There was ae sang amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleased rae best. 
That some kind husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife : 
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the brsMfc, 

A to the life. 

I've scarce heard ought described sae weel, 
WTiat gen'rous, maniy bosoms feel ; 
Thought I, * Can this be Pope, or Steele, 

Or Beattie's wark ?' 
They tald me 'twas an odd kind chiel 

About Muirkirk. 

If pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, 
And sae about him there I spiert) 



171 



i4 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Then a* that keu't him round declarea 
He had ingine, 

That nane excell'd It, few cam near't, 
It was sae fine. 

That set him to a pint of ale, 
An' either douce or merry tale, 
Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel'. 

Or witty catches, 
Tween Inverness and Teviotdale, 

He had few matchos 

Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, 
Tho' I should pawn my pleugh an' graith, 
Or die a cadger pownie's death, 

At some dyke back, 
A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith 

To hear your crack. 

But, first an' foremost, I should tell, 
Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
I to the crambo-jingle fell, 

Tho' rude and rough, 
Yet crooning to a body's sel' 

Does weel eneugh. 

I am nae poet, in a sense, 
But just a rhymer, like, by chance. 
An' hae to learning nae pretence. 

Yet, what the matter? 
Whene'er my muse does on me glance, 

1 jingle at her. 

Your critic folk may cock their nose, 
And say, ' How can you e'er propose, 
You wha ken hardly verse fiae prose. 
To mak a sang 9" 
But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 

Ye're may be wrang 

What's a' your jargon o' your schools, 
four Latin names for horns an' stools ; 
If honest nature made you fools, 

What sail's your grammars? 
Ye'd better taen up spades and shools, 

Or knappin-hammers. 

A set 0* dull conceited hashes, 
Confuse their brains in college classes ! 
They gang in stirks, and come out asses, 

Plain truth to speak j 
An' syne they think to climb Parnassus 

By dint o' Greek ! 

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire ! 
That's a' the learning I desire ; 
Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire 

At pleugh or cart, 
My muse, though hamely in attire, 

May touch the heart. 

O for a spunk o' Allan^s glee. 
Or Ferguson's, the bauld and slee. 
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be, 
If I can hit it ' 



That would be lear eneugh for nie ? 
If I could get it. 

Now, Sir, if ye hae friends enow, 
Tho' real friends, I b'lieve are few. 
Yet, if your catalogue be fou, 

I'se no insist. 
Bat gif ye want ae friend that's true, 

I'm on your list. 

I winna bkw iijout mysel ; 
As ill I like my faults to tell ; 
But friends, and folk that wish me well, 

' They sometimes roose me 
Tho' I maun own, as monie still 

As far abuse me. 

There's ae wee faut they whyles lay to me, 
I like the lasses — Guid forgie me ! 
For monie a plack they wheedle frae me, 

At dance or fair j 
May be some itlier thing they gie me 

They weel can spare. 

But Mauchliiie race, or Maiichline fair, 
I should be proud to meet you there ; 
We'se gie ae night's discharge to care, 

If we forgather, 
An' hae a swap o' rhyming-ware 

Wi' ane anither 

The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, 
An' kirsen hi in wi' reekin' water ; 
Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter. 

To cheer our heart ; 
An' faith we'se be acquainted better 

Before we part. 

Awa ye selfish warly race, 
I Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, 
Ev'n love and friendship, should give place 

To catch the plack ! 
I dinna like to see your face, 

Nor hear your crack. 

But ye whom social pleasure charms. 
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, 
Who holn your being on the terms, 

' Each aid the others,' 
Come to my bowl, come to my *rms, 

My friends^ my brother* 

But, to conclude my lang epistle, 
As my auld pen's worn to the grissle ; 
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, 

Who am, most fervent, 
While I can either sing, or vvhissle, 

Your friend and servant 



POEMS. 



U 



TO THE SAME. 

APRIL 21, 1785. 

While new-ca'd kye rout at the stake, 
An* pownies reek in pleugh or brake, 
This hour on e'enin's edge I take, 

To own I'm debtor 
To honest-hearted anld Lapraik 

For his kind letter. 

Forjesket sair, with weary legs, 
Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs, 
Or dealing thro' amang the naigs 

Their ten hours bite, 
My awkart muse sair pleads and begs, 

I would na write. 

The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie, 
She's saft at best, and something lazy, 
Quo' she, * Ye ken, we've been sae busy, 
This month an' mair. 
That trouth my head is grown right dizzie, 
An' something sair.' 

Her dowff excuses pat me mad ; 
' Conscience,' says I, ' ye thowless jad ! 
I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, 

This vera night ; 
So dinna ye affront your trade, 

But rhyme it right. 

* Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, 
Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, 
Roose you sae weel for your deserts, 

In terms sae friendly, 
Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts. 

An' thank him kindly!' 

Sae I gat paper in a Wink, 
An' down gaed stumpie in the ink : 
Quoth I, ' Before I sleep a wink, 

I vow I'll close it; 
An' if ye winna mak' it clink, 

By Jove I'll prose it !' 

Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether 
In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither. 
Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither, 

Let time mak proof; 
But I shall scribble down some blether 
, Just clear. afF loof. 

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp 
Tho' fortune use you hard an' sharp ; 
Come, kittle up your moorland harp 

Wi' gleesome touch ! 
Ne'er mind ho\v Fortune waft and ivarp ; 

She's but a b-tch. 

She's gien me monie a jirt and fleg. 
Sin 1 could striddle owre a rig ; 
But, by the L — d, tho' I should beg, 
Wi* lyart pow. 



I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg. 
As lang's I dow ' 



Now comes the sax and twentieth simmei, 
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer, 
Still persecuted by the liramer, 

Frae year to year ; 
But yet, despite the kittle kmimer, 

I, Rub, am here 

Do ye envy the city Gent, 
Behint a kist to lie and sklent. 
Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent. 

And muckle wame, 
In some bit brugh to represent 

A Bailies name ? 

Or is't the paughty feudal thane, 
Wi' ruffled sark and glancin' cane, 
Wha thinks himself nae sheep-shank bane, 

But lordly stalks, 
While caps an' bonnets aiF are taen. 

As by he walks ? 

' O Thou wha gies us each guid gift ! 
Gie me o' wit and sense a lift, 
Then turn nie, if Thou please, adrift 

Thro' Scotland wide • 
Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift. 

In a' their pride V 

Were this the charter of our state, 
' On pain o' hell be rich and great,' 
Damnation then would be our fate, 

Beyond reinead ; 
But, thanks to Heav'n ! that's no the gats 

We learn our creed. 

For thus the royal mandate i-an. 
When first the human race began, 
' The social, friendly, honest man, 

Whate'er he be, 
'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan. 

An' none but he /' 

O mandate glorious and divine ! 
The ragged followers o' the Nine, 
Poor, thoughtless devils ! yet may shine 

In glorious light, 
While sordid sons of Mammon's line 

Aae dark as night. 

Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' ^rowi 
Their worthless nievefu' o' a soul 
May in some future carcase howl 

The forest's fright ; 
Or in some day-detesting owl 

May shun the light. 

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, 
To reach their native, kindred skies, 
And sing their pleasures, hopes, and joys, 
In some mild sphere, 
Still closer knit in friendship's ties, 

Each passing year. 



46 



BURNS' WORKS. 



TO W. S 



-N, 



OCHILTKEE. 

May 1785. 
I GAT your letter, winsome Willie : 
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie ; 
Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly, 

An' unco vain, 
Should I believe, my coaxin' bilHe, 

Your flatter in' strain. 

But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
I sud be laith to think ye hinted 
Ironic satire, sidelins sklented 

On my poor musie ; 
Tho' in sic phraisin' terms ye've penn'd it, 

I scarce excuse ye. 

]My senses wad be in a creel, 
Should I but dare a Jwpe to speel, 
Wi' Allan ar wi' Gilbertfield, 

The braes of fame ; 
Or Ferguson, the writer chiel, 

A deathless name. 

(O Ferguson ! thy glorious parts 
111 suited law's dry, musty acts ! 
My curse upon your whunstane hearts. 

Ye E'nbrugh Gentry ! 
The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes, 

Wad stow'd his pantry !) 

Yet when a tale comes i' my head. 
Or lasses gie my heart a screed, 
As whyles they're like to be my dead, 

(O sad disease !) 
T kittle up my rustic reed ; 

It gies me ease. 

Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain, 
She's gotten poets o' her ain, 
Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, 

But tune their lays, 
Till echoes a' resound again 

Her weel-sung praise. 

Nae poet thought her worth his while. 
To set her name in measured style ; 
She lay like some unkenned of isle 

Beside New- Flolland, 
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil 

Besouth Magellan. 

Jttamsay an' famous Ferguson 
Gied Forth an' Tay a lift ahoon ; 
Yarrow an' Ticeed to mouie a tune, 

Owre Scotland rings, 
Whilst Irwin, Lngar, Ayr, an' Doon, 

Nae body sings. 

Th' Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, 
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line ! 
But, Willie, set your fit to mine, 

An* cock your crest^ 



We'll gar our streams and burnies shme 
Up wi' the best. 

We'll sing auld Coila" s plains an' fells, 
He" moors red- brown wi* heather bells. 
Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells. 

Where glorious Wallaci 
Aft bure the gree, as story tells, 

Frae southern billies. 

At Wallace' name what Scottish blood 
But boils up in a spring- tide flood ! 
Oft have our fearless fathers strode 

By Wallace' side, 
Still pressing onward, red-wat shod. 

Or glorious died. 

O sweet are Coila s haughs an' woods, 
When lintwhites chant among the buds, 
An' jinkin hares, in amorous whids, 

Their loves enjoy, 
While thro' the braes the cushat croods 

With wailfu' cry ! 

Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me 
When winds rave thro' the naked tree ; 
Or frost on hills of Ochiltree 

Are hoary grey ; 
Or blindmg drifts wild-furious flee, 

Dark'ning the day ! 

O Nature ! a' thy shows an' forms 
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms ! 
Whether the summer kindly warms 

Wi' life an' light, 
Or winter howls, in gusty storms, 

The lang, dark night ! 

The Muse, nae poet ever fand her, 
Till by himsel he learn'd to wander, 
Adown some trotting burn's meander, 

An' no think lang ; 
O sweet, to stray, an' pensive ponder 

A heartfelt sang ! 

The warly race may drudge and drive, 
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive. 
Let me fair Natures face descrive, 

And I, wi' pleasure, 
Shall let the busy, grumbling hive 

Bum o'er their treasure. 

Fareweel, ' my rhyme-composing brither \ 
We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither : 
Now let us hiy our heads thegither, 

In love fraternal : 
May Envy wallop in a tethtr. 

Black fiend, infernal ! 

Whiic highlandnien hate tolls and taxes; 
While moorian' herds like guid fat braxle« ; 
While terra fiima on her axis 

Diurnal turns, 
Count on a friend, in faith and practice, 

Ik Robert Burns, 



i r- 
I 



POEMS. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

My memory's no worth a preen ; 

I had amaist forgotten clean, 

Ye bade me write you what they mean 

By this neic-ltght, * 

Bout which our herds sae aft hae been 

Maist Hke to fight. 

In days when mankind were but callans 
At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, 
They took nae p?ins their speech to balaace, 

Or rules to gi'e, 
But spak their thoughts in plain braid lallano, 
, Like you or me. 

In thae auld times, they thought the moon^ 
Tust like a sark, or pair o* shoon. 
Wore by degrees, till her last roon, 

Gaed past their viewing, 
An' shortly after she was doue. 

They gat a new ane. 

This past for certain, undisputed ; 
It ni'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, 
Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it. 

An* ca'd it wrang ; 
An muckle din there was about it, 

Baith loud an' lang. 

Some herds, weel learn'd upo* the beuk, 
W;id threap auld folk the thing misteuk; 
For 'twas the auld moon turu'd a neuk, 

An* out o' sight. 
An' backlins-comin', to the leuk, 

She grew mair bright. 

This was deny'd, it was affirm'd ; 
The herds and hissels were alanii'd ; 
The rev'rend grey-beards rav'd an' storm'd, 

That beardless laddies 
Should think they better were iaform'd 

Than their auld daddies. 

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; 
Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks ; 
An' monie a fallow gat bis licks, 

Wi' hearty ci'unt ; 
An' some, to learn them for their tricks, 

Were hangd an' brunt. 

This game was piay'd in mooie lands, 
An' auld-light caddies bure sic hands, 
That faith, the youngsters took the sands, 

Wi* nimble shanks, 
Till lairds forbade, by strict commands, 

Sic bluidy pranks. 

But ne?v-Iight herds gat sic a cowt, 
Folk thought them ruin'd stick-un'-stowe, 
Till now an;'iist on ev'ry knowe, 

Ye'll find ane plac'd ; 



• See Note, p. 14. 



An' some, their new-light fair avow, 

Just quite barefac'd. 

Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatl?*' 
Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin' ; 
Mysel, I've even seen them greetin' 

Wi' girnin' spite, 
To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on 

By word an' write. 

But shortly they will cowe the louns ! 
Some auld-light herds in neebor towns 
Are miud't, in things they ca' balloons, 

To tak' a flight, 
An* stay a month amang the moons 

An' see them right. 

Guid observation they will gie them ; 
An' when the aidd moon's gaun to lea'e themu 
The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' theai 

Just i' their pouch. 
An' when the neic-light billies see them, 

I thick they'll ci'ouch ! 

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter 
Is naething but a ' moonshine matter ;' 
But tho' AdW prose- folk Latin splatter 

In logic tukie, 
I hope, we bardies ken some better 

Than mind sic brulzie. 



EPISTLE TO J. RANKINE, 

ENCLOSING SOME VOEJNIS. 

O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine, 
The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkin' ! 
There's mony godly folks are thinkin'j 

Your dreams * an' tricks 
Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin', 

Straight to auld Nick'*. 

Ye ha'e sae monie cracks an' cants 
And in your wicked, drucken rants, 
Ye raak' a devil o' the saunts, 

An' fill them fou ; 
And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, 

Are a' seen thro'. 

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! 
That holy robe, O dinna tear it ! 
Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it, 

The lads in black ! 
But your curst wit, when it comes near it, 

Rives't aif their back. 

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing 
It's just the blue-gown badge an' claithing 
O' saunts ; tak that, ye lea'e tiiera naething 
To ken them by, 



* A certain humorous dream d his was thai m»$ 
ing a noise in the countrv-side. 



i •^ 

Frae ony unregenerate heathen 

Like you or I. 



BURNS WORKS 



I ! 



I've sent you here some rhyming ware, 
A' that I bargain'd for an' mair ; 
Sae, when you hae an hour to spare, 

I will expect 
Yon sang,* ye'll sen't wi' cannie care, 
And no neglect. 

Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing ! 
My muse dow scarcely spread her wing ! 
I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring. 

An' danc'd my fill ! 
I'd better gaeu and sair'd the king 

At Bunker's Hill. 

'Twas ae night lately in my fun, 

I gaed a roving u'i' the gun, 

An' brought a paitrick to the grun, 

A bonnie hen, 
And, as the twilight was begun, 

Thought nane wad ken. 

The poor wee thing was l-ttle hurt ; 
I straikit it a wee for sport. 
Ne'er thinkin' they wad fash me for't ; 

But, deil-ma care I 
Somebody tells the poacher-court 

The hale affair. 

Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a note. 
That sic a hen had got a shot ; 
I was suspected for the plot ; 

I scorn'd to lie ; 
So gat the whissle o' my groat, 

An' pay't the fee. 

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, 
An' by my pouther an' my hail. 
An' by my hen, an' by her tail, 

I vow an' s'vvear ! 
The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale. 

For this, niest year. 

As soon's the clockin' time is by, 
An' the wee pouts begun to cry, 
L — d, I'se hae sportin' by an* by, 

For my gowd guinea : 
Tho* I should herd the huckakin kye 

For't, in Virginia. 

Trowth, they had meikle for to blame ! 
'Twas neither lirokeu vising nor limb, 
But twa-three draps about the wame, 

Scarce thro' the feathens ; 
An' baith a yellow George to claim, 

An' thole their blethers ! 

It pits me aye as mad's a hare ; 
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair. 
But penvyworths again is fair, 

When time's expedient : 
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, 

Your most obedient. 



* A iong he had promised the Author. 



WRITTEN IN 

FRIARS CARSE HERMITAGE, 

ON NITH-SIDE. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed. 
Be thou deckt in silken stole. 
Grave these counsels on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most. 
Sprung from night, in darkness loat ; 
Hope not sunshine every hour, 
Fear not clouds will always lou*. 

As youth and love with sprightly danc», 
Beneath thy morning star advance. 
Pleasure with her siren air 
May delude the thoughtless pair ; 
Let prudence bless enjoyment's cup. 
Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. 

As thy day grows warm and high, 
Life's meridian flaming nigh, 
Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? 
Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale? 
Check thy climbing step, elate. 
Evils lurk in felon wait : 
Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold, 
Soar around each cliffy hold, 
While cheerful peace, Avith linnet song. 
Chants the lowly dells among. 

As the shades of ev'ning close, 
Beck'ning thee to long repose: 
As life itself becomes disease. 
Seek the chimney-neuk of ease, 
There ruminate with sober thought. 
On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrough 
And teach the sportive younker's round, 
Saws of experience, sage and sound. 
Say, man's true, genuine estimate. 
The grand criterion of his fate, 
Is not, Art thou high or low ? 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow? 
Did many talents gild thy span ? 
Or frugal nature grudge thee one ? 
Tell tiiem, and press it on their mind,. 
As thou thyself must shortly find. 
The smile or frown of awful Heav'n, 
To virtue or to vice is giv'n. 
Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, 
There solid self-enjoyment lies ; 
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways. 
Lead to the wretched, vile, and basa. 

Thus resign'd and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep ; 
Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake. 
Night, where dawn shall never breaa, 
Till future life, future no more. 
To light and joy the good restore, 
To light and joy unknown before. 



POEMS. 



49 



Stracger, go ! Heav*n be thy guide \ 
Quod the beadsman of Nith-side. 



ODE, 

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. OF 

Dweller in yon dungeon dark, 
Hangman of creation ! mark 
Wlio in widow-weeds appears, 
Laden with unhonoured years, 
Noosing with care a bursting purse, 
Baited with many a deadly curse ! 

STROPHE. 

View the wither'd ])eldam's face — 

Can thy keen inspection trace 

Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace? 

Not that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows, 

Pity's flood there never rose 

See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, 

Hands that took— but never gave. 

Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, 

Lo, there she goes, unpitied, and unblest ; 

She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest ! 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, 
(A whik forbear, ye tort'rin? fisnds), 
Seesc thou wno.^e step unwhiing nirner oenis ? 
No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies ; 
Tiss thy trusty quondam mate, 
Doom'd to share thy fiery fiite. 
She, tardy, hell-ward plies. 

EPODE. 

And are they of no more avail. 
Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a-year ? 
In other worlds can Mammon fail, 
Omnipotent as he is here ? 
O, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, 
Wliile down the wretched vital part is driv'n ! 
The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear, 
Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n. 



ELEGY 



CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON, 



A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT 
HIS HONOURS IMMEnATELY FROM 
MIGHTY GOD ! 



Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie. 

O'er hurcheon hides, 

And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie 
Wi' thy auld sides ! 

He's gane, he's gane ! he's frae us torn, 
The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 
Thee, iVIatthew, Nature's sel shall mourn 

By wood and wild, 
Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exil'd. 

Ye hills, near neebors o' the starns, 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns, 

Where echo slumbers f 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 

My wailing numbers; 

Mourn ilka grove the cushat kens ! 
Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens ! 
Ye burnies, wimplin down your glens, 

Wi' toddlin' din. 
Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, 

Frae lin to lin. 

Mourn little harebells o'er the lee ; 
Ye stately fox-gloves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie 

In scented bow'rs ; 
Ye roses on your thornv tree. 

The first o' flow*rs. 

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 
Droops with a diamond at his head. 
At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed 

r th' rustling gale, 
Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade. 

Come join my wail, 

I\Ionrn ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; 
Ye curlews calling thro' a clud ; 

Ye whistling plover ; 
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood : 

He's gane for ever ! 

INIourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals ; 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake ; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Rair for his sake. 



But now his radiant course Is run. 
For Matthew's course was bright : 

His soul was like the glorious sun, 
A matchless, Hea\''nly light! 



O Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ; 
The meikle devil wi a woodie 



^^^ INIourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day* 
^^'~ 'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay ; 
And when ye wing your annual way 

Frae our cauld shore, 
Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay. 
Wham we deplore. 

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r. 
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, 
What time the moon, wi' silent glow r, 
Sets up her horn, 



50 



BURNS' WORKS 



Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 

Till waukrife morn ! 

O rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! 
O/t have ye heard my canty strains : 
But now, what else for me remains 

But tales of woe ; 
An* frae my een the drapping rains 

Maun ever flow. 

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year ! 
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : 
Thou, simmer, while each corny spear 
Shoots up its head. 
Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear, 

For him that's dedd ! 

Thou, autumn, wi' thy yeUow hair. 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 
Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air 

The roaring blast. 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost ! 

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light ! 
Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
And you, ye twinkling starnies bright. 

My Matthew mourn ! 
For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight. 

Ne'er to return. 

O Henderson ! the man, the brother ! 
And art thou gone, and gone for ever ! 
And hast thou cross'd that unknown river, 

Life's dreaiy bound ! 
Like thee, where shall I find another. 

The world around ! 

Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye Great, 
In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 
But by the honest turf I'll wait. 

Thou man of worth ! 
And weep the ae best fellow's fate 

E'er lay in earth 






THE EPITAPH. 

Stop, passenger ! my story's brief ; 

And truth I shall relate, man : 
I tell nae common tale o' grief, 

For Matthew was a great man. 

If thou uncommon merit hast, 

Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man ; 

A look of pity hither cast, 

For Matthew was a poor man. 

If thou a noble sodger art, 

That pasSest by this grave, man ; 

There mouldei'S here a gallant heart, 
For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and ways^ 
Canst throw uncommon light, man , 



Here lies wha weel had von thy pmse. 
For Matthew was a bright man 

If thou at friendsliip's sacred ca*, 
Wad life itself resign, man ; 

Thy sympathetic tear maun fa'. 
For Matthew was a kind man. 

If thou art staunch without a staiu, 
Like the unchanging blue, man ; 

This was a kinsman o' thy ain, 
For Matthew was a true man. 

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, 
And ne er guid wine did fear, man , 

This was thy billie, dam, and sire. 
For Matthew was a queer man. 

If ony whiggish wbingin sot. 

To blame poor Matthew dare, man 

May dool and sorrow be his lot. 
For Matthew was a rare man. 



LAMENT OF MARY QUEF.^ 
OF SCOTS, 

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING, 

Now Nature hangs her mantle green 

On every blooming tree, 
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white 

Out o'er the grassy lea : 
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, 

And glads the azure skies ; 
But nought can glad the weary wight 

That fast in durance lies. 

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, 

Aloft on dewy wing ; 
The merle, in his noontide bow'r, 

Makes woodland echoes ring ; 
The mavis mild wi' many a note, 

Sings drowsy day to rest : 
In love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi* care nor thrall opprest. 

Now blooms the lily by the bank, 

The primrose down the brae; 
The hawthorn's budding in the glec 

And milk-white is the slae : 
The meanest hind in fair Scotlarui, 

May rove their sweets araang ; 
i But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, 

Maun lie in prison Strang. 

I was the Queen o' bonnie France, 

Where happy I hae been ; 
Fu' lightly raise I in the morn, 

As blithe lay down at e'en ; 
And I'm the sovereign of Scotland, 

And mony a traitor there ; 
Yet here I He in foreign bands, 

And never ending care. 



POEMS. 



But as for thee, thc« false woman. 

My sister and my fae. 
Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword 

That thro' thy soul shall gae : 
The weeping blood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thee ; 
Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe 

Frae woman's pitying e'e. 

My son ! my son ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortune shine ; 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign, 

That neer wad blink on mine ! 
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 

Or turn their hearts to thee ; 
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend. 

Remember him for me ! 

O ! soon, to me, m-ay swmmer-suns 

Nae mair light up the morn ! 
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow corn ! 
And in the narrow house o' death 

Let winter round me rave ; 
And the next flow'rs that deck the spring, 

Blooift on my peaceful grave. 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq. 

OF FINTRA. 

Late crippled of an arm, and now a leg, 

About to beg a pass for leave to beg ; 

Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest, 

(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest) ; 

Will generous Graham list to his poet's wail ? 

(It soothes poor misei'y, hearkening to her 

tale). 
And hear him curse the light he first surveyed, 
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade ? 

Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign ; 
Of thy caprice maternal I complain. 
The lion and the bull thy care have found, 
One shakes the forest, and one spurns the 

ground : 
Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, 
Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell. 
Thy minions, kings defend, control, devour, 

In all th' omnipotence of rule and power 

Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure ; 
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure ; 
Toads with their poison, doctors with their 

drug, [snug. 

The priest and hedge-hog, in their robes are 
Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, [darts. 
Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and 

But Oh ! thou bitter step-mother and hard, 
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child — the Bard ! 
A tning unteachable in world's skill, 
And half an idiot too, more helpless still. 
No heels to bear him from the opening dun; 
No claws to dig, his hated sigKt to shun ; 



No horns, but those by luckless Hymen wen. 
And those, alas ! not Amalthea's horn : 
No nerves olfactory. Mammon's trusty cur, 
Clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur. 
In naked feeling, and in aching pride. 
He bears th' unbroken blast from every side • 
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, ' 
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. 

Critics — appall'd, I venture on the name. 
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame ', 
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes ; 
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 

His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung. 
By blockheads' daring into madness stung ; 
His well-woi\ bays, than life itself more dear, 
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must 

wear ; 
Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the unequal strife, 
The hapless poei flounders on through life, 
Till fled each hope that once his bosom fired, 
And fled each muse that glorious once inspired, 
Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age. 
Dead, even resentment, for his injured page. 
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's 

rage ! 

So, by some hedge, the generous steed de- 
ceased. 
For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast ; 
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone. 
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son. 

dulness ! portion of the truly blest ! 
Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! 

Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. 
If mantling high she fills the golden cup. 
With sober selfish ease they sip it up ; [serve^ 
Conscious the bounteous meed they well de- 
They only wonder ' some folks' do not starve. 
The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog. 
And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. 
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, 
And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope, 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, 
And j^st conclude ' that fools are fortune's core.' 
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, 
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. 

Non so the idle muses' mad-cap train. 
Not such the workings of their moon-struci 

brain ; 
In equanimity they never dwell, 
By turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted hell. 

1 dread thee, fate, relentless and severe. 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear ; 
Already one strong hold of hope is lost, 
Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust ; 
(Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears, 
And left us darkling in a world of tears) : 
O ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r 1 
Fintra, my other stay, long bless and spare ! 



S2 



BQRNS' WORKS. 



riiro' a long life his hopes a id wishes crown, 
\nd bright in cloudless skies his sun go down ! 
\lay bliss domestic smooth his private path ; 
Give energy to life ; and soothe his latest breath, 
SVith many a filial tear circling the bed of 
death ! 



LAMENT FOR JAMES EARL 
OF GLENCAIRN. 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills, 

By fits the sun's departing beam 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream : 
Beneath a craigy steep, a bard, 

Laden with years and meikle pain, 
Id loud lament bewail'd his lord, 

Whom death had all untimely ta'en. 

He lean'd him to an ancient aik, 

Whose trunk was mould'ring down with 
years ; , 
Flis locks were bleached white wi' time, 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ! 
And as he touch'd his trembling harp. 

And as he tun'd his doleful sang, 
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, 

To echo bore the notes alang. 

" Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing, 

The relics of the vernal quire ! 
^e woods that shed on a' the winds 

The honours of the a^ed year ! 
A few short months, and glad and gay, 

Again ye'il charm the ear aud e'e ; 
But nocht iji all revolving time 

Can gladness bring again to me. 

" I am a bending aged tree, 

That long has stood the wind and rain ; 
But now has come a cruel blast, 

And my last hald of earth is gane : 
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; 
But I maun lie before the storm, 

And ithers plant them in my room. 

" I've seen sae mony changefu' years, 

On earth I am a stranger grown ; 
[ wander in the ways of men, 

Alike unknowing and unknown : 
Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved, 

I bear alane my lade o' care, 
For silent, low, on beds of dust. 

Lie a' that would my sorrows sharer 

" And last, (the sum of a' my griefs).' 

My noble master lies in clay ; 
The flow'r amang our barons bold. 

His country's pride, his countrj's stay: 
Id weary being now I pine. 

For a' the life of life is dead, 
A.nd hope has left my aged ken, 

On forward wing for ever fled. 



" Awake thy last sad voice, my harp • 

The voice of woe and wild despair ! 
Awake, resound thy latest lay, 

Then sleep in silence evermair ! 
And thou, my last, best, only friend, 

That fillest an untimely tomb. 
Accept this tribute from the bard 

Thou brought from fortune's rairkest glooiB 

" In poverty's low barren vale. 

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round ; 
Tho' oft I turn'd the wistful eye, 

Nae ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou found'st me like the morning sun 

That melts the fogs in limpid air, 
The friendless bard and rustic song, 

Became alike thy fostering ca-re. 

" O ! why has worth so short a date ? 

While villains ripen grey with time ! 
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great, 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime ! 
Why did I live to see that day? 

A day to me so full of woe ! 
O ! had I met the mortal shaft 

^iyhich laid my benefactor, low ! 

" The bridegroom may forget the bride 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has been ; 
The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; 
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 

And a' that thou hast done for me !" 



LINES, 



SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFORD, OF WHITEFORM, 
BART. WITH THE FOREGOING POEM. 

Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st. 
Who, save thy minds reproach, nought earthly 

fear'st. 
To thee this votive bflPering I impart, 
" The tearful tribute of a broken heart." 
The friend thou valued'st, I the patron lov'd ; 
His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd. 
We'll mourn till we too go as he is gone. 
And tread the dreary path to that dark wond 

unknown. 



TAM O' SHANTER: 



A TALE. 



Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Buke. 

Gau'in Dou^as, 



When chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neebors, neebors meet. 



POEMS. 



5f 



A>» mavket-days are wearing late, 
An* folk begin to tak the gate ; 
While we sit bousing at the nappy, 
An' gettin' foil and unco happy, 
We think na on the lang Scots miles. 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles. 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, 
' Gathering her brows like gathering storm. 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shunter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses. 
For honest men and bonny lasses). 

O 7am / had'st thou but been sae wise, 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum j 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market-day thou was na sober ; 
That ilka melder, wi' the miller. 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; 
That at the L — d's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank wl' Kirkton Jean till Monday. 
She prophesy'd, that late or soon, 
Thou would be found deep diown'd in Doon 
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, 
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet. 
To think how mony counsels sweet, 
How mcny lengthen'd sage advices, 
The husband frae the wife despises ! 

But to our tale : Ae market night. 
Tain had got planted unco right ; 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely ; 
And at his elbow, souter JoJinny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 
Tarn lo'ed him like a vera brither ; 
They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter ; 
And aye the ale was growing better : 
The landlady and Tarn grew gracious, 
Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious; 
The souter tuuld his queerest stories; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tain did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy. 
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy; 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure : 
Kings may be blest, but Tain was glorious, 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious ! 

But pleasures are like poppies spread, 
Vou seize the flow'r, its bjoom is shed ! 
Or lik>; the sn()^v-falls in the river, 
A. mo.i.ent wh'te — then melts for ever: 



Or like the horealis race. 

That flit ere you can point their plaoe ; 

Or like the rainbow's lovely form 

Evanishing amid the storm 

Nae man can tether time or tide ; 

The hour approaches Tarn maun ride ; 

That hour, o' night's black arch the key-s^ane 

That dreary hour he mounts his beast in .♦ 

And sic a night he taks the road in, 

As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 
The rattlin' showers rose on the blast : 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; 
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd ; 
That night, a child might understand, 
The deil had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg-^ 
A better never lifted leg — 
7a??i skelpit on thro' dub and mii-e, 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; 
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet ; 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet ; 
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
Kirk-Alloioay was drawing nigh, 
Whare ghalsts and houlets nightly cry — 

By this time he was cross the ford, 
Whaie in the snaw the chapman smoor'd ; 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Whare drunken Charlie brak 's neck-bane ; 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Whare Mungo's niither hanged hersel.— 
Before him Do m pours all his floods ; 
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods ; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze ; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing. 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing — - 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 
What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil ; 
Wi' usquebae we'll face the devil. — 
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle. 
Fair play, he cared na dells a boddle. 
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 
She ventured forward on the light ; 
And, vow ! Tain saw an unco sight ! 
Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 
Nae cotillion brent new frae France, 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 
Put life and mettle in their heels. 
A winnock-bunker in the east, 
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast ; 
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 
To gie them music was his charge : 
He screw'd his pipes and gart them sklrl» 
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. — 



£>4 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Coffins stood round like open presses, 
That shawM tlie dead in their last dresses ; 
And hy some devilish cantrip slight, 
Each in its cauld hand held a light, — 
By which heroic Tarn was alile 
To note upon the haly table, 
A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairus : 
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, 
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 
Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted ; 
Five scymitars wi' murder crusted ; 
A garter, which a babe had strangled ; 
A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son o' life bereft, 
The grey hairs yet stack to the heft ; 
Wi* mair o' horrible and awfu* 
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious, 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit. 
And coost her duddies to the wark, 
And linket at it in her sark ! 

Now Tarn, O Tarn ! had they been queans 
A' plump an* strapping, in their teens ; 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, 
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen ' 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That auce were plush, o' guid blue hair, 
I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdles ! 
For ae blink o' the bonnie bardies ! 

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, 
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, 
Lowpiiig and flinging on a crummock, 
I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie, 
There was ae winsome wench and walle, 
That night enlisted in the core, 
(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ! 
For mony a beast to dead she shot. 
And perish'd mony a bonnie boat, 
And shook baith meikle corn and bear, 
And kept the country side in fear), 
Her cutty-sark, o' Paisley harn, 
That while a lassie she had worn, 
In longitude though sorely scanty. 
It was her best, and she was vauntie. — 
Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, 
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her riches), 
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches ! 

But here my muse her wing maun cour ; 
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r ; 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
(A souple jade she was and Strang) 
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd, 
'^^nd thought his very een enrJch'd : 



Even Satan glowr'd, and ftdg'd fu' fain. 
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main 
Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
7am tint his reason a' thegither, 
And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark J * 
And in an instant all was dark ; 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 
When plundering herds assail their byke ; 
As open pussie's mortal foes, 
When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 
As eager runs the market crowd. 
When " Catch the thief!" resounds aloud ; 
So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
Wi' raonie an eldritch screech and hollow. 

Ah, Tam ! Ah, Tam ! thou'll get thy fairis, 
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin .- 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin ! 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stane * of the brig , 
There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they dare na cross. 
But ere the key-stane she could make, 
The fient a tale she had to shake ' 
For Nannie, far before the rest. 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle , 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 
Ae spring brought aff" her master hale. 
But left behind her ain grey tail : 
The carlin claught her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother's son take heed : 
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, 
Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear, 
Remember I'am o' Shanter's mare. 



ON SEEING A WOUNDED 
HARE LIMP BY ME, 

WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT. 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye : 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh. 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field. 
The bitter little that of life remains : 



« It is a well known fact, that witches, or any evil 
spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any far. 
ther than the middle of the next runninir stream — It 
may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted 
traveller, that when he falls in with tdirles, whatever 
danger may be in his going forward, there is muc*j 
more hazard in turning back. 



POEMS. Sa 


No more the thickening brakes and verdant 


ON A NOISY POLEMIC. 


plains, 




To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 


Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes : | 




Death, its my opinion, j 


Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted 


Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin bitch i 


rest, 


Into thy dark dominion ! 


No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! 




The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, 






The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 






ON WEE JOHNNY. 


Oft as by winding Nith, I musing wait 


I 


The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 


Hicjacet wee Johnny. 


I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 


Whoe'er thou art, reader, know, i 


And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy 


That death has murder'd Johnny .' ' j 


hapless fate. 


An' here his body lies fu' low — 1 




For saul, he ne'er had ony. 


ADDRESS TO THE SHADE 


i 


OF THOMSON, 


FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER, 


ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EBNAM, ROX- 


YE whose cheek the tear of pity stains. 


BURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS. 


Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ! 




Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, 


While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, 


The tender father and the gen'rous friend. 


Unfolds her tender mantle green, 


I 


Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, 


The pitying heart that felt for human woe ; 


Or tunes Eoliiin strains between : 


The dauntless heart that fear'd no human 
pride ; 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe j 


While Summer, with a matron grace, 


Retreats to Drybuigh's cooling shade, 


" For ev'n his failings leaned to virtue's 


Yet oft, delighted, stops to ti-ace 


side."* 


The progress of the spiky blade ; 
While Autumn, benefactor kind, 




FOR R. A. Esq. 


By Tweed erects his aged head. 




And sees, with self-approving mind, 


Know thou, stranger to the fame j 


Each creature on his bounty feed: 


Of this much lov'd, much honour'd nairp • 




(For none that knew him need be told) 


While maniac Winter rages o'er 


A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. 


The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, 




Rousing the turbid torrent's roar. 

Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows : 








FOR G. H. Esq. 


ho long, sweet Poet of the year, 




Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won ; 


The poor man weeps — here G n sleeps, 


While Scotia, with exulting tear. 


Whom canting wretches blam'd : 


Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 


But with such as he, where'er he be. 




May I be saved or i d I 

A BARD'S EPITAPH. 

Is there a whim-inspired fool, 


EPITAPHS. 




ON A CELEBRATED RULING 


Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 


ELDER. 


Owie blate to seek, owre proud to snool. 




Let him draw near ; 


Here souter John in death does sleep; 
To hell, if he's gane thither. 


And owre this grassy heap sing dool. 
And drap a tear. 


Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, 


Is there a bard of rustic song. 
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among. 


He'll baud it weel thegither. 


• Croldsmith, 



56 



BURNS' WOKlvlS. 



TLdt weekly this az'ea throng, 

O, pass not by ! 

But, with a frater-feeling strong, 

Here heave a sigh. 

Is there a man, whose judgment clear, 
Can others teach the course to steer, 
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career. 

Wild as the wave ; 
Htre pause — and, through the starting tear, 

Survey this grave. 

Tlie poor inhabitant below. 
Was quick to learn and wise to know, 
And keenly felt the friendly glow, 

And softer flame, 
But thoughtless follies laid him low, 

And stain'd his name ! 

Reader, attend — whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole. 

In low pursuit ; 
Know, prudent, cautious, self-control, 

Is wisdom's root. 



ON THE LATE 

CAPTAIN GROSE'S 

PEREGRINATIONS THROUGH SCOTLAND, COL- 
LECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOal. 

Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, 
Frae ]\Jaidenkirk to Johnny Groat's ; 
If there's a hole in a' your coats, 

I rede you tent it : 
A chield's amang you, taking notes, 

And, faith, he'll prent it. 

If in your bounds ye chance to light 
Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, 
0* stature short, but genius bright. 

That's he, mark weel — 
And wow ! he has an unco slight 

O' cauk and keel. 

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,* 
Or kirk, deserted by its riggin, 
It's ten to ane ye'll find hiin snug in 

Some eldritch part, 
Wi' deils, they say, L — d safe's ! colleaguin' 
At some black art. — 

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer. 
Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamor, 
And you deep -read in hell's black grammar, 

Warlocks and witches ; 
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, 

Ye midnight bitches. 

It*s tauld he was a sodger bred. 
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; 

• Vide his Antici.iities of Scotliud. 



Bat now he's quat the spurtle blade. 

And dog-skin wallet^ 

And ta'en the — Antiquarian trade, 

I think they call it. 

He has a fouth o' auld nick nackets : 
Rusty airn caps and jinglin' jackets,* 
Wad had the Lothians three in tacketSy 

A towmont guid : 
And parritch pats, and auld saut-backeta, 
Before the Flood. 

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; 
Auld Tubal Cain's fire-shool and fender ; 
That which distinguished the gender 

O' Balaam's ass ; 
A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, 

Weel shod wi* brass. 

Forbye, he'll shape you aff", fu* gleg, 
The cut of Adam's philibeg ; 
The knife that nicket Abel's craig. 

He'll prove you fully, 
It was a faulding jocteleg, 

Or lang-kall gullie.— 

But wad ye see him in his glee, 
For meikie glee and fun has he, 
Then set him down, and twa or three 

Guid fellows wi' him. 
And port, O port ! Shine thou a wee, 

And then ye'll see him ! 

Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and" prose ! 
Thou art a dainty chiel, O Grose ; — 
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose, 

They sair misca' thee ; 
I'd take the rascal by the nose, 

Wad say. Shame fa' thee ! 



TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS, 

a very YOUNG LADY, WRITTEN ON THE BLANK 
LEAF OF A BOOK, PRESENTED iO HER BT 
THE AUTHOR. 

Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay. 
Blooming on thy early Alay, 
Never may'st thou, lovely fiow'r. 
Chilly shrink in sleety show'r : 
Never Boreas' hoary path, 
Ne'i'er Eurus' pois'nous breath, 
Never baleful stellar lights. 
Taint thee with untimely blights ! 
Never, never reptde thief 
Riot on thy virgin leaf! 
Nor even Sol too fiercely view 
Thy bosom blushiag still with dew ' 

Rlay'st thou long, sweet crimson geno. 
Richly deck thy native stem ; 



* Vide his treatise on Ancient Armour and Weapons. 



POEMS. 



57 



Till some ev'ning sober, calm, 
Drofiping dews, and oreathing balm, 
While all around the woodland rings, 
And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings j 
Thou, iunid the dirgeful sound, 
Shed thy dying honours round, 
And resign to parent earth 
The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. 



ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER, THE DEATH OF 

JOHN M'LEOD, Esq. 

BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR 
FRIEND OF THE AUTHOr's. 



Sad thy tale, thou idle page. 

And rueful thy alarms : 
Death tears the brother of her love 

From Isabella's arms. 

Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew 
The morning rose may blow ; 

But, cold successive noontide blasts 
May lay its beauties low. 

Fair on Isabella's morn 
The sun propitious smil'd ; 

But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds 
Succeeding hopes beguil'd. 

Fate oft tears the bosom chords 
That nature finest strung : 

So Isabella's heait was form'd, 
And so that heart was rung. 

Dread Omnipotence, alone, 
Can heal the wound he gave ; 

Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes 
To scenes beyond the grave. 

Virtuous blossoms there shall blow. 
And fear no withering blast ; 

There Isabella's spotless worth 
Shall happy be at last. 



THE HUMBLE PETITION OF 
BRUAR-WATER.* 

TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. 

My Lord, I knov/ your noble ear 

Woe ne'er assails in vain ; 
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear 

Your humble slave complain, 
riow saucy Phoebus' scorching beams, 

In flaming summer-pride, 



* Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque 
and beautiful ; but their eft'ect is much impaired by the 
want of trees and shrubs. 

J 



Dry-withering, waste my foaming streams, 
And drink my crystal tide. 



The lightly-jumpin glowrin trouts, 

That thro' my waters play, 
If, in their random, wanton spouts. 

They near the margin stray ; 
If, hapless chance ! they linger lan^ 

I'm scorching up so shallow. 
They're left the whitening stanes 

In gasping death to wallow. 

Last day I grat, wi' spite and teen, 

As poet B came by. 

That, to a bard I should be seen, 

Wi' half my channel dry : 
A panegyric rhyme, I ween, 

Even as I was he shor'd me : 
But had I in my glory been. 

He, kneeling;, wad ador'd me. 



Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, 

la twisting strength I rin ; 
There, high my boiling torrent smokes, 

Wild-roaring o'er a linn : 
Enjoying large each spring and well 

As nature gave them me, 
I am, although I say't mysel, 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 

Would then my noble master please 

To grant my highest wishes. 
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees, 

And bonnie spreading bushes ; 
Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 

You'll wander on my banks, 
And listen mony a grateful bird 

Return you tuneful thanks. 

The sober laverock, warbling wild. 

Shall to the skies aspire ; 
The gowdspink, music's gayest cliild, 

Shall sweetly join the choir : 
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear. 

The mavis wild and mellow ; 
The robin pensive autumn cheer, 

In all her locks of yellow. 

This too, a covert shall ensure, 

To shield them from the storm ; 
And coward maukin sleep secure, 

Low in her grassy form. 
Here shall the shepherd make his seat, 

To weave his crown of flowers ; 
Or find a shelt'ring safe retreat. 

From prone descending showers. 

Ajid here, by sweet endearing stealth, 

Shall meet the loving pair. 
Despising worlds with all their wealth 

As empty idle care : 
The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms 

The hour of heav'n to grace, 
And birks extend their fragrant arms 

To screen the dear embrace. 
2 



d8 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Here, haply too, at vernal dawn. 

Some musing bard may stray, 
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, 

And misty mountain, grey ; 
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, 

Mild chequering through the trees, 
Rave to my darkly dashing stream, 

Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. 

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool. 

My lowly banks o'erspread, 
And view, deep-bending in the pool. 

Their shadows' watery bed ! 
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest, 

My craggy cliffs adorn ; 
And, for the little songster's nest, 

The close embow'ring thorn. 

So may old Scotia's darling hope, 

Your little angel band, 
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 

Their honour'd native land ! 
So may thro' Albion's farthest ken, 

To social-flowing glasses, 
The grace be — " Athole's honest men, 

And Athole's bonnie lasses !" 



ON SCARING SOME WATER- 
FOWL, 

IN LOCH-TURIT ; 

A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF 
OCHTEKTYRE. 

Why, ye tenants of the lake. 
For me your watery haunt forsake? 
Tell me, fellow-creatures, wliy 
At my presence thus you fly ? 
Why disturb your social joys, 
Parent, filial, kindred ties ? — 
Common friend to you and me, 
Nature's gifts to all are free : 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, 
Busy feed, or wanton Live ; 
Or, beneath the sheltering rock, 
Bide the surging billoiv's shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race, 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. 
Man, your proud usurping foe. 
Would be lord of all below ; 
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, 
Tyrant stern to all beside. 

The eagle, from the cliffy brow, 
Marking you his prey below. 
In his breast no pity dwells. 
Strong necessity compels. 
But man, t« whom alone is giv'n 
A ray direct from pity-ng heav'n, 
Glorious in his heart humane — 
And creatures for his pleasure slain. 



In these savage, liquid plains. 
Only known to wand'ring swains, 
Where the mossy riv'let strays ; 
Far from human haunts and ways ; 
All on nature you depend, 
And life's poor season peaceful ^pend. 

Or, if man's superior might, 
Dare invade your native right, 
On the lofty ether borne, 
Man with all his pow'rs you scorn : 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, 
Other lakes and other springs ; 
And the foe you cannot brave, 
Scorn at least to be his slave. 



vVRITTEN WITH A PENCIL 

OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE IN THE PARLOUB 
OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH. 

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, 
These narthern scenes with weary feet I trace ;. 
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, 
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep, 
My savage journey, curious, I pursue. 
Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view — 
The meeting clifs each deep-sunk glen divides. 
The woods, wild-scatter'd, clothe their ample 

sides ; 
Th* outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong th<» 

hills, 
The eye with wonder and amazement fills ; 
The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride, 
The palace rising on his verdant side. 
The lawns wood-fringed in Natures native taste; 
The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste ! 
The arches striding o'er the new-born stream ; 
The village, glittering in the moontide beam — ■ 



Poetic ardours in my bosom swell. 
Lone wandering by the hermit's mossy cell : 
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; 
The incessant roar of headlong tumbling 
floods — 



Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre, 
And look through nature with creative fire ; 
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd, 

. Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander 

I wild ; 

And disappointment, in '■hese lonely bounds. 
Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds • 
Here heart-struck Grief might heaven-ward 

stretch her scan. 
And injur'd worth forget ard oardon man. 



POEMS. 
U^RITTEN WITH A PENCIL, 

STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR 
LOCH-NESS. 



59 



Among the heathy hills and ragged woods 
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ; 
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, 
Where, thro" a shapeless breach, his stream 
resounds. 

As high in air the bursting torrents flow, 
As deep recoiling surges foam below, 
Prone down the rock the whitening sheet de- 
scends, 
And viewless echo's ear, astonish'd, rends. 
Dim-seen, through rising mists, and ceaseless 

showers, 
The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding lowers. 
StiL tnro tne gap the struggling river toils. 
And still below, the horrid caldron boils — 



THE WHISTLE 

A BALLAD. 



ON THE BIHTH OF A 

POSTHUMOUS CHILD, 

BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF 
FAMILY DISTRESS. 

SwEET Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, 

And ward o' mony a prayer, 
What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 

Sae helpless, sweet, and fair ! 

November hirples o'er the lea, 

Chill on thy lovely form ; 
And gane, alas ! the shelt'ring tree. 

Should shield thee frae the storm. 

May He who gives the rain to pour, 

And wings the blast to blaw. 
Protect thee frae the driving shower, 

The bitter frost and snaw ! 

May He, the friend of woe and want, 
Who heals life's various stounds. 

Protect and guard the mother plant, 
And heal her cruel wounds ! 

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast, 

Fair on the summer morn : 
Now feebly bends she in the blast, 

Unshelter'd and foilorn. 

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely goci 

Unscath'd by ruffian hand ! 
And from thee many a parent stem 

Arise to deck our land ! 



As the authentic protohistory of the Whistle is cu- 
rious, I shall here gne it— In the train of Anne ol 
Denmark, when she came to Scotland with our James 
the Sixth, there came over also a Danisli gentleman of 
gigantic stature and great prowess, and a matchless 
champion of Bacchus, He had a little ebonv Whistle 
which at the commencement of the orgies he laid on 
the table, and whoever was last able to blow it, every 
body else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, 
was to carry off the Whistle as a trophy of victory' 
The Dane produced credentials of his victories without 
a single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stock- 
holm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty 
courts in Germany ; and challenged the Scots Baccha- 
nalians to the alternative of trying his prowess, or else 
of acknowledgnig their inferioritv. After many over- 
throws on the part of the Scots, the Dane was eiieoun. 
tered by Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor of 
the present worthy baronet of that name; who, after 
three days and three nights' hard contest, left the 
Scandinavian under the table, 

And bletv on the Whistle his requiem shrill. 

Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, af- 
terwards lost the Whistle to Walter Riddel, of Glen, 
riddel, who had married a sister of Sir VVa.'pr's.— Or 
Friday, the 16th of October 1790, at Friars-Carse, the 
Whistle was once more contended for, as related in the 
ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwel- 
ton; Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glenriddel, lineal de- 
scendant and representative of Walter Riddel, who 
won tlie Whistle, and in whose family it had conti- 
nued; and Alexander Ferguson, Esq. of Craigdarroch, 
likewise descended of the great Sir Robert; which last 
gentleman carried off the hard-won honours of the field. 



- SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, 
I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North, 
Was brought to the court of our good Scottish 

king, 
And long with this Whistle all Scotland shaL 

ring. 

Old Loda,* still rueing the arm of Fingal, 
The god of the bottle sends down from his 

hall— 
" This Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland 

get o'er, 
And drink them to hell. Sir ! or ne'er see me 

more !" 

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, 
What champions ventured, what championa 

fell ; ^ 

The son of great Loda was conqueror still. 
And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. 

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and tL« 
Scaur, 
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, 
He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea, 
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy hae 
gain'd ; 
Which now in his house has for ages remain'd ; 



• SeeOssJan' Carlc-thura. 



60 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Till three noble chieftains, and all of Kis blood, 
The jovial contest again have renew'd. 

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear 

of flaw ; 
Craigdanoch, so famous for wit, worth, and 

law ; 
\nd trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins.; 
ind gallant Sir Robert, deep read in old wines. 

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth 

as oil, 
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil ; 
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan. 
And once more, in claret, try which was the 

man. 

" By the gods of the ancients," Glenriddel 

replies, 
" Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 
I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,* 
And bun.per his horn with him twenty times 

o'er." 

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pre- 
tend, 

But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe — or his 
friend, 

Said, Toss down the Whistle, the prize of the 
field, 

And knee-deep in claret, he'd die or he'd yield. 

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, 
So noted for drowning of sorrow and care ; 
But for wine and for welcome not more known 

to fame, 
Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely 

dame. 

A bard was selected to witness the fray, 
And tell future ages the feats of the day ; 
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, 
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had 
been. 

The dinner being over, the claret they ply, 
And every new cork is a new spring of joy ; 
In the bands of old friendship and kindred so 

set, 

And the bands grew the tighter the more they 
were wet. 

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; 
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core, 
And vowed that to leave them he was quite 

forlorn, 
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. 

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the 
night. 
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight. 



Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, 
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestor* 
did. 

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious auo 

sage, 
No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage ; 
A high-rulinr Eider to wallow in wine ! 
He left the f^ul business to folks less divine. 

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the 
end ; 

But who can with fate and quart bumpers con- 
tend ? 

Though fate said — a hero should perish in light ; 

So uprose bright Phoebus — and down fell the 
knight. 



bard, like a prophet in 
soar when creatiou 



Next uprose our 

drink : — 

" Craigdarroch, thou'lt 

shall sink ; 
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme. 
Come — one bottle more — and have at the sub- 
lime ! 

" Thy line, that have struggled for Freedom 
with Bruce, 
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce ; 
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay ; 
The field thou ha.st won, by yon bright god of 

day I" 



• See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides. 



SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 

A BROTHER POET, f 
AULD NEEBOR, 

Tivi three times doubly o'er your debtor, 
For your auld-farrent, frien'ly letter ; 
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, 

Ye speak so fair : 
For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter, 

Some less maun sair. 



Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle ; 
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, 
To cheer you through the weary widdle 

O' war'ly cares, 
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld grey hairs. 

But Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit ; 
I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit ; 
An' gif it's sae, ye sud be lickit 

Until ye fyke ; 
Sic bans as you sud ne'er be faikit. 

Be hain't wha like. 



t This is prefixed to the poetns of David Sillar, pub 
lished at Kilmarnock, 1 ', 89, and has not before appear 
Jed in our author's printed poems. 



^J 



■■ 




V , Ir- <l- 



POEMS. 



61 



Fo! me, I'm on Parnassus brink, 

Rivin' the words to gar them clink ; 

Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink, 

Wi' jads or masons ; 
An' whyles, but aye owre late, I think, 

Braw sober lessons. 

0\ a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Commen' me to the bardie clan; 
Except it be some idle plan 

O' rhymin' clink. 
The devil-haet, that I sud ban, 

They ever think. 

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme of livin' ; 
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin' : 
But just the pouchie put the nieve in, 

An' while ought's there, 
Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin', 

An' fash nae main 

Leeze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure. 
My chief, amalst my only pleasure, 
At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leisure, 

The Muse, poor hizzie ! 
Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure. 

She's seldom lazy. 

Haud to the Musd, my dainty Davie : 
The warl' may play you mony a shavie ; 
But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, 

Tho' e'er sae poor, 
Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie 

Frae door tae door. 



ON MY EARLY DAYS. 
I. 

I MIND it weel in early date, 

When I was beardless, young, and blate, 

An' first could thresh the barn. 
Or haud a yokin o' the pleugh, 
An' tho' forfoughten sair eneugh, 

Yet unco proud to learn — 
Wliin first amang the yellow corn 

A man 1 reckon'd was, 
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn 
Could rank my rig and lass — 
Still shearing, and clearing 
The tither stooked raw, 
Wi' claivers, an' haivers, 
Wearing the day awa. 

11. 

E'en then a wish, I mind its pow'r, 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast, 
Th? ■■ I for poor auld Scotland's sake, 
Some usefu' plan or book could make, 

Or sing a sang, at least. 
The rough burr-thistle, spreading ^7i<Je 

Amang the bearderj btvir. 



I turn'd the weeder-ciips aside, 
An' spared the symbol dear : 
No nation, no station. 

My envy e'er could raise, 
A Scot still, but blot still, 
I knew nae higher praise, 

III. 

But still the elements o' sang 

In formless jumble, right an' rang, 

Wild floated in my brain : 
'Till on that har'st I said before, 
My partner in the merry core, 

She lous'd the forming strain : 
I see her yet, the sousie quean. 

That lighted up her jingle, 
Her witching smile, her pauky e'en 
That gart my heart-strings tingk ' 
I filed, inspiied, 

At every kindling keek, 
But bashing, and dashing, 
I feared aye to speak.* 



ON THE DEATH OF 

SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR 

The laitip of day, with ill-presaging glare, 
Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave: 

Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening 
air. 
And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. 

Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell. 

Once the loved haunts of Scotia's royal, 
train ; j- 
Or mused where limpid streams once hallow'd 
well4 
Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane.§ 

Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling 
rocks, 
The clouds, swift-wing'd^ flew o'er the starry 
sky, 
The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, 
And shooting meteors caught the startled eye. 

The paly moon rose in the livid east, 

And 'mong the cliffs disclosed a stately form, 

In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast, 
And mix'd her wailings with the raving 
storm. 

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 

'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd; 

Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe, 
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. 



» The reader will find some explanation of thij 
poem in p. viii. 

t The King's Park at Holyrood-house. 
± St. Anthony's Well. 
^ St. AnUionv's Chapel. 



62 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Reversed tliat spear, redoubtable in war, 

Reclined that banner, erst in fields nnfurl'd, 

That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, 

And braved the mighty raonarchs of the 
world. — 

" My patriot son fills an untimely grave !" 

With accents wild and lifted arms she cried ; 
*' Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to 
save, 
Low lies the heart that swell'd with, honest 
pride ! 

* A weeping country joins a widow's tear. 
The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry ; 

The drooping arts around their patron's bier, 
And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh. 

" I saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; 

I saw fair Freedom's blossoms rickly blow ! 
But, ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! 

Relentless fate has lai^ the guardian low. — 

" My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, 
While empty greatness saves a worthless 
name! 

No ; every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue, 
And future ages hear his growing fame. 

" And I will join a mother's tender cares. 
Thro' future times to make his virtues last, 

That distant years may boast of other Blairs" — 
She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping 
blast. 



WRITTEN 

ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY OF THE POEMS, 
PRESENTED TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN 
MARRIED.* 

Once fondly lov'd, and stiil remember'd dear, 
Sweet early object of my youthful vows. 

Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere, 
Friendship ! 'tis all cold duty now allows. — 

And when you read the simple artless rhymes, 
One friendly sigh for him, he asks no more, 

Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes, 
Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar. 



THE JOLLY BEGGARS 

A CANTATA, 



RECITATIVO. 



When lyart leaves bestrew the yird, 

^r wavering like the Bauckie-bird,j- 

Bedim cauld Borea,s' blast ; 



* The girl mentioned in the letter to Dr. Moore. 
i The old Scotc> name for the 3at, 



Wlien hailstanes d.ive wi' bitter skjrte. 
And infant frosts begin to bite, 
In hoary cranreuch drest ; 
Ae night at e'en a merry core, 
O' randie, gangrel bodies. 
In Poosie-Najisie's held the splore, 
To drink their orra duddies : 
Wi' quaffing and laughing, 

They ranted and they sang ; 
Wi' jumping and thumping, 
The very girdle rang. 

First, niest the fire, in auld red raga, 
Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags. 

And knapsack a' in order ; 
His doxy lay within his arm, 
Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm- 
She blinket on her sodger : 
An' aye he gies the tousie drab 

The tither skelpin' kiss, 
While she held up her greedy gab 
Just like an a'mous dish. 
Ilk smack did crack still, 

Just like a cadger's whip, 
Then staggering and swaggering 
He roar'd this ditty up — 

AIK. 

Tune—'* Soldier's Joy. 

I. 

I AM a son of Mars who have been in manf 

wars, 
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; 
This here was for a wench, and that other in a 

trench, 
When welcoming the French at the sound of 

the drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 

n. 

My 'prenticeship I past where my leader 

breath'd his last, 
When the bloody die was cast on the heights of 

Abram ; 
I served out my trade when the gallant game 

was play'd. 
And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the 

drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 

III. 

I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating 

batt'ries, 
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb : 
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to 

head me, 
Fd clatter my stumps at the sound of the drum. 
Lai de daudle, &c. 

IV. 

And now tho' I must beg with a wooden arm 

and leg. 
And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum 



POEMS. 



63 



Vm as happy wltli my wallet;, my bottle and 

my callet, 
49 when I us'd in scarlet to follow a drum. 
Lai de daud^e, &c. 

V. 

Wliat tho' with hoary locks, I must stand the 

Winter shocks, 
beneath the woods and rocks often times for a 

home, 
When the tother bag I sell, and the tother 

bottle tell, 
I could meet a troop of hell, at the sound of 

the drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 



RECITATIVO. 

He ended ; and the kebars sheuk, 

Aboon the chorus roar ; 
Whilo frighted rattans backward leuk, 

And seek the benmost bore ; 
A fairy tiddler frae the neuk, 

He skirl'd out encore ! 
But up arose the martial chuck, 

And laid the loud uproar- 



AIR. 
rMn«— " Soldier Laddie." 

I ONCE was a maid, tho* I cannot tell when. 
And still my delight is in proper young men ; 
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie, 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lai de lal, &c. 

n 

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade. 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so 

ruddy, 
Iransported I was with my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

HL 

But the godly old chaplain left him in the iurch, 
The sword I forsook for the sake of the church, 
He ventured the soul, and I risked the body, 
Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

IV. 

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot. 
The regiment at large for a husband I got ; 
From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was 

ready, 
I asked no more but a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 



But the peace It reduc'd me to beg In despair, 
nil T met my old boy at Cunningham fair ; 



His rag regimental they flntter'd so gaudy, 
My heart it rejoic'd at my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

YL 

And now I have liv'a — I know not how long, 

And still I can join in a cup or a song ; 

But whilst with both hands I can hold the gla: 

steady. 
Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 
Sinar, Lal de lal, &c 



RECITATIVO. 

Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, 
Wha kent sae weel to cleek the sterling. 
For monie a pursie she had hooked. 
And had In mony a well been ducked. 
Her dove had been a Highland laddie, 
But weary fa' the waefu' woodie ! 
Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began 
To wail her braw John Highlandman. 



Tune — " O an' ye were dead, Gudeman." 

L 

A HIGHLAND lad my love was born, 
The Lalland laws he held in scorn ; 
But he still was faithfu' to his clan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 



Sing, hey my braw John Highlandman I 
Sing, ho my braw John Highlandman ! 
There's not a lad in a' the Ian' 
Was match for my John Highlandman. 

n. 

With his philibeg an' tartan plaid. 
An' gude claymore down by his side, 
The ladies hearts he did trepan. 
My galla"'; braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

HL 

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
An' liv'd like lords and ladies gay ; 
For a Lalland face he feared none, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

IV. 

They banish'd him beyond the sea, 
But ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, 
Embracing my John Highlandman. 
Sing, hev, &c. 



But, oh ! they catch'd him at the last> 
And bdund him in a dungeon fast ; 



64 



BURNS WORKS. 



My curse upon them every one, 
They've hang'd my braw John Higlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

VI. 

And now a widow, T must mourn 
The pleasures that will ne'er return ; 
No comfort but a hearty can, 
When I think on John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 



RECITATIVO. 

A pigmy scraper, wi' his fiddle, 

Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle, 

Her strappin limb and gausy middle 

He reach'd nae higher, 
Had hol'd his heartie I'ke a riddle. 

An' blawn't on fire. 

Wi' hand on haunch, an' upward e'e, 
He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three, 
Then in an Arioso key, 

The wee Apollo 
Set oflF wi' Allegretto glee 

His giga solo. 



AIR. 
Tunt—" Whistk owre the lave o't." 

I. 

Let me ryke up to dight that tear, 
An* go wi me to be my dear, 
An' then your every care and fear 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 

CHORUS. 

I am a fiddler to my trade, 
An' a' the tunes that e'er I play'd, 
The sweetest still to wife or maid, 
Was whistle owre the lave o't. 

n. 

At kirns and weddings we'se be there, 
An* O ! sae nicely 's we will fare; 
We'll bouse about till Daddie Care 
Sings whistle owre the lave o't. 
I am, &c. 

HI. 

Sae merrily the banes we'll pyke. 
An' sun oursels about the dyke, 
An' at our leisure, when we like, 
We'll whistle owre the lave o't. 
I am, &c. 

IV. 

But bless rae wi' your heaven o' charms, 
And while I kittle hair on thairms, 
Hunger, cauld, an a sick harms, 
May whistle owi-e the lave o't. 
I am, &c. 



RF.CITATIVO. 

Her charms had struck a sturdj Cairdg 

As weei as poor Gutscraper: 
He taks the fiddler by the beard, 

And draws a rusty rapier — 
He swoor by a' was swearing worth, 

To speet him like a pliver, 
Unless he would from that time forth. 

Relinquish her for ever, 

Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedle dee 

Upon his hunkers bended, 
And pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face, 

And sae the quarrel ended. 
But though his little heart did grieve, 

When round the tinkler prest her. 
He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve, 

When thus the caird address'd her 



Tune—" Clout the Caldron." 

I. 

My bonnle lass, I work in brass, 

A tinkler is my station ; 
I've travell'd round all Christian ground 

In this my occupation. 
I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroU'd 

In many a noble squadron : 
But vain they search'd, when off I march^ 

To go and clout the cauldron. 

I've ta'en the gold, Int. 

n. 

Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, 

Wi' a his noise an' caprin', 
An' tak' a share wi' those that bear 

The budget an' the apron. 
An' by that stowp, my faith and houp, 

An' by that dear Keilbagie,* 
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, 

May I ne'er weet my craigie. 

An' by that stowp, Ate* 

RECITATIVO. 

The caird prevail'd — the unblushing fair 

In his embraces sunk. 
Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair, 

An' partly she was drunk. 
Sir Violino, with an air 

That show'd a man of spunk, 
Wish'd unison between the pair, 

An' made the bottle clunk 

To their health that nigtt 

But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft 

That play'd a dame a shavie, 
The fiddler rak'd her fore an aft, 

Behint the chicken cavie. 
Her lord, a wight o' Homer's * craft, 

Tho' limping with the spavie. 



» A peculiar sort of whisky so called, a great favour- 
ite with Poosie-Naneie's clubs. 

* Homer is allowed to be the oldest balled-singer ot, 
record. 







65 


fji hirpl'd up, and lip like daft, 
An' shor'd them Daintie Davie 

boot that night. 


They toom'd their pocks, an' pawn'd their duds. 
They scarcely left to co'er their fuda, 
To quench tneir lowan drouth. 


He was a care-defying blade 

As ever Bacchus listed, 
Though Fortune sair upon him laid. 

His heart she ever miss'd it. ", 
He had no wish but — to be glad, 

Nor want but — when he thirsted ; 
He hated nought but — to be sad. 

And thus the Muse suggested. 

His sang that night. 


Then owre again, the jovial thrang, 

The poet (lid request. 
To loose his pack an' wale a sang, 
A ballad o' the best : 
He rising, rejoicing. 

Between his twa Deborahs, 
Looks round hin., an' found them 
Impatient for the chorus. 


AIR. 


AlK. 


Tune—" For a' that, an' a' that" 


Tune—" Jolly Mortals fill your GlaMCS." 

I 
See ! the smoking bowl before us, 

Mark our jovial ragged ring ! 
Round and round take up the chorus, 

And in raptures let us sing. 


I. 

I AM a bard of no regard, 
Wi' gentle folks, an' a' that ; 

But H'nner-Uke, the glowran byke, 
Frae town to town I draw that. 


CHORUS. 

For a' that, an' a that ; 

An' twice as meikle's a' that ; 
I've lost but ane, I've twa behin', 

I've wife enough for a* that. 


CHORUS. 

A fig for those by law protected' 
Liberty's a glorious feast ! 

Courts for cowards were erected. 
Churches built to please the pri^t. 

jj 


II. 

I never drank the Muse's stank, 
Castalia's burn, an' a' that ; 

But there it streams, and richly reams, 
My Helicon I ca' that. 

For a' that, &c. 


What is title ? what is treasure ? 

What is reputation's care ? 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

'Tis no matter how or where ! 
A fig, &c. 

III. 


III. 

Great love I bear to a* the fair. 
Their humble slave, an' a' that ; 

But lordly will, I hold it still 
A mortal sin to thraw that. 

For a' that, Stc. 


With the ready trick and fable. 
Round we wander all the day ; 

And at night, in barn or stable, 
Hug our doxies on the hay, 
A fig, &c. 

IV. 


IV. 

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, 
Wi' mutual love an' a' that ; 

But for how lang the Jlie may stang. 
Let inclination law that. 

For a' that, &c. 


Does the train-attended carriage 
Through the country lighter rove? 

Does the sober bed of marriage 
Witness brighter scenes of love ? 
A fig, &c. 

V. 

Life is all a variorum. 

We regard not how it goes ; 

Let them cant about decorum 
Who have characters to lose. 
A fig, &c. 


1 V. 

Their tricks and craft have put me daft, 

They've ta'en me in, an' a' that ; 
But clear your decks, and here's the sex ! 

I like the jads for a' that. 


" For a' that, an' a' that. 

An' twice as meikle's a' that ; 

My dearest bluid, to do them guid. 
They're welcome till't for a* that. 


VI. 

Here's to the budgets, bags, and wallets ' 
Here's to all the wandering train ! 

Here's our ragged brats and callets ! 
One and all cry out, Amen ! 


RECITATIVO. 

So sung the bard — and Nansie's wa's 
Shook with a thunder of applause, 
Re-echo'd from each mouth ; 


A fig for those by law protected \ 
Libeity's a glorious feast ! 

Courts for cowards were erected, 
Churches built to please the priest. 


! 1 



60 



BURNS' WORKS. 



THE KIRK'S ALARM:* 

A SATIRE. 



Orthodox, orthodox, wha believe ia John 
Knox, 
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience ; 
There's a heretic blast has been blawu in the 
wast, 
That what is no sense must be nonsense. 

Dr. Mac, f Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a 
rack. 

To strike evil doers wi' terror ; 
To join faith and sense upon ony pretence. 

Is heretic, damnable error. 

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad, I de- 
clare. 

To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing ; 
Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief, 

And orator Bob ^ is its ruin. 

D'rymple mild, § D'rymple mild, tho' your 
heart's like a child, 
And your life like the new driven snaw, 
Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have 

For preaching that three's ane an' twa. 

Rumble John,^ Rumble John, mount the steps 
wi' a groan, 
Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; 
Then lug out your ladle, deel brimstone like 
adle, 
And roar every note of the damn'd. 

Simper James, || Simper James, leave the fair 
Killie dames, 
There's a holier chace in your view ; 
I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon 
lead, 
For puppies like you there's but few. 

Singet Sawney,** Singet Sawney, are ye herd- 
ing the penny, 

Unconscious what evils await ; 
Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul. 

For the foul tliief is just at your gate. 

Daddy Auld,f ■)• Daddy Auld, there's a tod in 
the fauld, 
A tod meikle waur than the clerk ; 
Tho' ye can do little skaith, ye'll be in at the 

death, 
And if ye canna bite ye may bark. 



Davie Bluster,* Davie Bluster, if for a saint 

ye do muster. 
The corjjs is no nice of recruits ; 
Yet to worth lets be just, royal blood ye might 
boast. 
If the ass u-as the king of the brutes. 

Jamie Goose,f Jamie Goose, ye ha'e made but 
tooin roose. 
In hunting the wicked lieutenant ; 
But the Doctor's your mark, for the L — d's 
haly ark ; 
He has cooper'd and cawd a wrang pin in't. 

Poet Willie, | Poet Willie, gie the Doctor <» 
volley, 

Wi' your liberty's chain and your wit ; 
O'er Pegasus' side ye ne'er laid a stride, 

Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh-t. 

Andro Gouk, ^ Andro Gouk, ye may slander 

the book, 

And the book not the waur let me tell ye ; 

Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and 

wig, 

And ye'll hac a calf's head o' sma' value. 

Barr Steenie, || Barr Steenie, what mean ye ? 
what mean ye ? 

If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, 
Ye may ha'e some pretence to bavins and sense* 

Wi' people wha ken ye nae better. 

Irvine side,** Irvine side, wi' your turkey-cock 
pride. 
Of manhood but sm.a' is your share ; 
Ye've the figure, 'tis true, even your faes wil\ 
allow, 
And your friends they dare grant you nae 
mair. 

Muirland Jock, ff Muirland Jock, when the 
L — d makes a rock 

To crush Common Sense for her sins. 
If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit 

To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 

Holv Will, II Holy Will, there was wit i' your 
skull, 
AMicn ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor ; 
The timmer is scant, when ye're ta'en for a 
saint, 
Wlia should swing in a rape for an hour. 

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp'ritual 
guns. 
Ammunition ye never can need ; 
Your hearts are the stuff, will be powther 
enough, 
And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. 



• This poem was written a short time after the pub- 
sication of Mr. M'Gill's Essay. 

-» M,. M' 11. t Ft 1 A n. 

5 Dr. D c. •! Mr. R 11. 

l| Ml-. M' V. *!>* Mr. M y. 

tt Mr. A d. 



♦ Mr. G , O c. f Mr. Y g, C — 

t Mr. P s, A-r. ^ Dr. A. M 11. 

II Mr. S V , U— r. ** Mr. S h, G— 

ft -Mr. is d. it An E r in M- 



POEMS. 



67 



Poet Burns, Poet Buz-ns, wi* ycur priest-skelp- 
ing turns, 

Why desert ye your auld native shire ; 
your muse is a gipsie, e'en tho' she were tipsie, 

She could ca' us nae waur than we are. 



THE TWA HERDS.* 

O a' ye pious godly flocks, 
Weel fed on pasture's orthodox, 
Wha now will keep you frae the fox. 

Or worrying tykes, 
Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks, 

About the dykes ? 

The twa best herds in a' the wast, 
That e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast, 
These five-and-twenty slmmei-s past, 

O ! dool to tell, 
Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast 

Atween themsel. 

O, M y, man, and worthy R 11, 

How could you raise so vile a bustle, 
Ye'll see how new-light herds will whistle, 

An' think it fine ! 
The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle, 

Sin' I ha'e min'. 

O, Sirs ! whae'er wad hae expeckit, 

Your duty ye wad sae negleckit, 

Ye wha were ne'er by laird respeckit, 

To wear the plaid, 
But by the 'orutes themselves eleckit. 

To be their guide. 

What flock wi' M y's flock could rank, 

Sae hale and hearty every shank, 
Nae polson'd soor Armlnian stank, 

He let them taste, 
Frae Calvin's well, aye clear they drank, 

O sic a feast ! 

The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod, 
Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood, 
He smelt their ilka hole and road, 

Baith out and in, 
And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid, 

And sell their skin. 

What herd like R 11 tell'd his tale, 

His voice was heard thro' muir and dale. 
He kend the Lord's sheep, ilka tail, 

O'er a' the height, 
And .saw gin they were sick or hale, 

At the first sight. 

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, 
Or nobly fling the gospel club, 



* This piece was among the first of our Author's pro- 
ductions which he submitted to the public ; and was 
occasioned by a dispute between two clergymen, near 
Kilmarnock. 



And new-light herds could nicely drub, 
Or pay their skin; 

Could shaie them o'er the burning dub, 
Or heave them in. 

Sic twa — O ! do I live to see't, 
Sic famous twa should disagreet. 
An' names, like villain, hypocrite, 

Ilk ither gi'en, 
While new-light herds wi' laughln' spice, 

Say neither's lieiw' ! 

A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld, 

There's D n, deep, and P s, shaul, 

But chiefly thou, apostle A — d 

We trust in thee, 
That thou wilt work them, not and cauld, 

Till they agree* 

Consider, Sirs, how we're beset, 
There's scarce a new herd that we get, 
But comes frae 'mang that cursed set, 

J winna name, 
I hope frae heav'n to see them yet 

In fiery flame. 

D e has been lang our fae, 

IM' 11 has wraught us meikle wae, 

And that curs'd rascal ca'd M' e, 

And baith the S s, 

That aft ha'e made us black and blae, 

Wi' vengefu' paws. 

Auld W w lang has hatch'd mischief, 

We thought aye death wad bring relief, 
But he ha^ gotten, to our grief, 

Ane to succeed him, 
A chield wha'll soundly buff" our beef; 

I meikle dread him. 

And mony a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fain would openly rebel, 
Forby turn-coats amang oursel. 

There S — h for ane, 
I doubt he's but a grey-nick quill, 

And that ye'll fin'. 

O ! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills. 

By mosses, meadows, moors, and feUs, 

Come join your counsel and your skills, 

To cow the lairds. 
And get the brutes the power themsels, 

To choose their herd* 

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, 

And learning in a woody dance. 

And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, 

That bites sae sair. 
Be banish'd o'er the sea to France : 

Let him bark there. 

Then Shaw's and Dalrymple's eloquence, 
M' ll's close nervous excellence, 



68 

M'Q 



BURNS WORKS. 



e's pathetic manly sense, 

And guid M*' ^-h, 

Wi S — th, vvha thro' the heart can glance, 
May a' pack aff. 



THE HENPECK'D HUSBAND, 

Cuhs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life, 
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife, 
Who has no will but by her high permission ; 
Who has not sixpence but in her possession ; 
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell ; 
\^1io dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell. 
Were such the wife had fallen to my part, 
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart ; 
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, 
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b — h. 



ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788. 

For lords or kings I dinna mourn, 
E'en let them die — for that they're born ! 
But, oh, prodigious to reflect, 
A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck ! 
O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space 
What dire events ha'e taken place ! 
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us ! 
In what a pickle thou hast left us ! 

The Spanish empire's tint ahead, 
An' my auld teethless Bawtie's dead ; 
The toolzie's teugh 'tween Pitt an' Fox, 
An' our guidwife's wee birdy cocks ; 
The tane is game, a bluidy devil, 
But to the hen-birds unco civil ; 
The tither's dour, has nae sic breedin', 
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden ! 

Ye ministers, come mount the pulpit. 
An' cry till ye be hearse an' rupit ; 
For Eighty-eight he wish'd you weel, 
An' giefl you a' baith gear an' meal ; 
E'en mony a plack, an' mony a peck, 
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck ! 

Ye bonnie lasses dight your een. 
For some o' you hae tint a frien' : 
In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en 
What ye'll ne'er hae to gi'e again. 

O'jserve the very nowt an' sheep. 
How dowff an' dowie now they creep ; 
Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry, 
For Embro* wells are grutten dry. 

O Eighty-nine thou's but a bairn. 
An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn ! 
Thou beardless boy, I piay tak' care. 
Thou now has got thy daddy's chair, 



Nae hand-cuff'd, mizzl'd, haff-sbackl'd Regent^ 
But, like himsel', a full fiee agent. 
Be sure ye follow out the plan 
Nae waur than he did, honest man ' 
As meikle better as you can. 
January 1, 1789. 



VERSES 

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE INN AX 
CARRON. 

We cam na here to view your warks 

In hopes to be mair wise. 
But only, lest we gang to hell, 

It may be nae surprise : 
But when we tirl'd at your door, 

Your porter dought na hear us ; 
Sae may, should we to hell's yetts come, 

Your billy Satan sair us ! 



LINES WRITTEN BY BURNS, 

WHILE ON HIS DEATH-BED, TO J N R K N 

AYRSHIRE, AND FORWARDED TO HIM IMME- 
DIATELY AFTER THE POEt's DEATH. 

He who of R— k — n sang, lies stiff and dead, 
And a green grassy hillock hides his head j 
Alas ! alas ! a devilish change indeed ! 



At a meeting of the Dumfries-shiue Volunteers, 
held to commemorate the anniversary of Rodney's 
victory, April 12th 1782, BuiiNS was called upon 
for a Song, instead of which he delivered the follow- 
ing Lines: 

Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast. 
Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that 

we lost ; — 
That we lost, did I say, nay, by heav'n ! that we 

found, 
For their fame it shall last while the world goes 

round. 
The next in succession, I'll give you the King, 
Wlioe'er would betray him on high may he swing 
And here's the grand fabric, our free Consti- 
tution, 
As built on the base of the great Revolution ; 
And longer with Politics not to be cramm'd. 
Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd ; 
And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal. 
May his son be a hangman, and he lis firit trial 



POEMS. 



STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. 

Thickest night o'erhangs my^ dwelling ! 

Howling tempests o'er me rave ! 
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, 

Still surround my lonely cave ! 

Crystal streamlets gently flowing, 

Busy haunts of base mankind. 
Western breezes, softly blowing. 

Suit not my distracted mind. 

in the cause of right engaged, 

Wrongs injurious to redress, 
Honour's war we stiongly waged. 

But the heavens deny'd success. 

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, 

Not a hope that dare attend, 
The wide world is all before us — 

But a world without a friend !* 



CLARINDA. 

Clarinda, mistress of my soul, 

The measur'd time is run ! 
The wretch beneath the dreary pole, 

So marks his latest sun. 

To what dark cave of frozen night 

Shall poor Sylvander hie ; 
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, 

The sun of all his joy. 

We part, — but by these precious drops, 

That fill thy lovely eyes ! 
No other light shall guide my steps, 

Till thy bright beams arise. 

She, the fair sun of all her sex. 
Has blest my glorious day : 

And shall a glimmering planet fix 
My worship to its ray ? 



A VISION. 

As I stood by yon roofless tower, 

Where the wa' -flower scents the dewy air. 
Where th' howlet mourns in her ivy bower, 

And tells the midnight moon her care. 

The winds were laid, the air was still. 
The stars they shot alang the sky j 

The fox was howling on the hill, 
And the distant echoing glens reply. 



« Strathallan, it is presumed, was one of the follow- 
ers of the young Chevalier, and is supposed to be lying 
concealed in some cave of the Highlands, after the 
battle of Culloden This song was written before the 
year 178S 



The stream adown its hazelly path. 
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's. 

Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,* 
Whase distant roaring swells and fa's. 

The cauld blue north was streaming forth 
Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din; 

Athort the lift they start and shift, 
Like fortune's favours, tint as win. 

By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes,j' 
And, by the inoon-beam, shook, to see 

A stern and stalwart ghais-t arise, 
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. 

Had I a statue been o' stane, 

His darin look had daunted me ; 

And on his bonnet grav'd was plain. 
The sacred posie — Liberty ! 

And frae his harp sic strains did flew. 

Might roused the slumb'ring dead to hear; 

But oh, it was a tale of woe. 
As ever met a Briton's ear ! 

He sang wi' joy his former day, 

He weeping wail'd his latter times ; 

But what he said it was nae play, 
I winna ventur't in my rhymes.i 



COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS 

TO 

MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, 

WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARd's PICTURE. 

Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, 
Of Stuart, a name once respected, 

A name, which to love was the mark of a true 
heart. 
But now 'tis despised and neglected : 



* Variation. To join yon river on the Strath, 
t Variation. Now looking over firth and fauld. 
Her horn the pale-faced Cynthia rear'd ; 
When, lo, in form of minstrel auld, 
A stern and stalwart ghaist appear'd. 
ij: This poem, an imperfect copy of which was print 
ed in Johnson's Museum, is here given from the poet's 
MS. with his last corrections. The scenery so finely 
described is taken from nature. The poet is supposed 
to be musing by night on the banks cf the river Clu. 
den, and by the ruins of Lincluden-Abbev, founded in 
the twelftii century, in the reign of Malcom IV. or 
whose present situation the reader may find some ac- 
count in Pennant's Tour in Scotland, or Grose's Anti- 
quities of that division of the island. Such a time and 
such a place are well fitted for holding converse with 
aerial beings. Though this poem has a political bias, 
yet it may be presumed that no reader of taste, what- 
ever his opinions may be, would forgive it being omit, 
ted. Our poet's prudence suppressed the song of Li- 
berty, perhaps fortunately for his reputation. It may 
be questioned whether, even in the resources of his 
[genius, a strain of poetry could ht e been found wor- 
I thy oi tire grandeur and solemn/*" of this pre ation 



70 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Tho' something like moisture conglobes in ray 
eye, 
Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; 
A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a 
sigh, 
Still more, if that wand'i'cr were royaL 

My fathers, that name have rever'd on a throne ; 

My fathers have fallen to right it ; 
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, 

That name should he scoffingly slight it. 

Still in prayers for King George I most heartily 
join, 
The Queen and the rest of the gentry, 
Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of 
mine ; 
Their title's avow'd by the country. 

But why of that epocha make such a fuss, 



But loyalty, truce ! we're on dangerous ground, 
Who knows how the fashions may alter, 

The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, 
To-morrow may bring us a halter. 

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 

A trifle scarce worthy your care ; 
But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard. 

Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your 
eye, 

And ushers the long dreary night : 
But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, 

Your course to the latest is bright. 

My muse jilted me here, and turned a cor- 
ner on me, and I have not got again into her 
good gi'aces. Do me the justice to believe me 
sincere in my grateful remembrance of the many 
civilities you have honoured me Vv'ith since I 
came to Edinburgh, and in assuring you that I 
have the honour to be, 

Revered Sir, 
Your obliged and very humble Servant, 
R. BURNS. 
Edinburgh, 1787. 



To ken what French miscnief was brewm , 

Or what the dimnlie Dutch were doin' ; 

That vile doup skelper, Emperor Joseph, 

If Venus yet had got his nose off; 

Or how the collieshankie works 

Atween the Russian and the Tuiks ; 

Or if the Swede, before he halt, 

Would play anither Charles the Twalt ! 

If Denmark, ony body spak o't ; 

Or Poland, wna had now the tack o't ; 

How cut-throat Prussian blades weue hingin 

How libbet Italy was singin ; 

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, 

Were saying or takin ought amiss : 

Or how our merry lads at hame. 

In Britain's court kept up the game : 

How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er 1 Im ' 

Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ; 

If sleekit Chatham Will was livin, 

Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; 

How daddie Burke the plea was cookin, 

If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin ; 

How cesses, stents, and fees were raxed. 

Or if bare a — yet were taxed ; 

The news o' princes, duk^s, and earls. 

Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls , 

If that daft Buckie, Geordie Wales, 

Was threshin still at hizzies* tails. 

Or if he was growin oughtlins douser, 

And no a perfect kintra cooser. — 

A' this and mair I never heard of; 

And, but for you, I might despair'd of. 

So gratefu', back your news I send you, 

And pray, a' guid things may attend you I 

Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1790. 



THE FOLLOWING POEM 

WAS WRITTEN TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD 

SENT HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED 

TO CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE. 

Kind sir, I've read your paper through. 
And faith, to me, 'twas really new ! 
How guessed ye, sir, what raaist I wanted ? 
This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted, 



POEM. 



on PASTORAL POETRY. 



Hail Poesie ! thou nymph reserved ! 

In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerved 

Frae common sense, or sunk enerved 

'Mang heaps o' claversj 
And och ! o*er aft thy joes hae starved, 

'Mid a' thy favours ! 

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, 
While loud the trump's heroic clang, 
And sock or buskin skelp alang 

To death or marriage ; 
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang 

But wi' miscarriage^ 

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; 
Eschylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives ; 
Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives 

Horatian fame ; 
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 

Even Sappho's flame 



POEMb. 



71 



But tliee, Theocritus, wha matches ? 
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches ; 
Squire Pope but busks his skinlin patches 

O' heathen tatters ; 
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, 

That ape their betters. 

In this braw age o' wit an lear. 

Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair 

Blaw sweetly in its native air 

And rural grace ; 
And wi' the far-famed Grecian share 

A rival place ? 

Yes ! there is ane ; a Scottish callan ! 
There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ! 
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, 

A chiel so clever ; 
The teeth o' time may gnaw Tamtallan, 

But thou's for ever. 

Thou paints auld nature to the nines, 

In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; 

Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines. 

Where Philomel, 
While nightly breezes sweep the vines, 

Her griefs will tell ! 

In gowany glens thy burnie strays. 
Where bonnie lassies bleach their claes ; 
Or trots by hazelly shaws or braes, 

Wi' hawthorns gray, 
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays 

At close o' day. 

Thy rural loves are nature's sel ; 
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ; 
Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell 

O' witchin' love. 
That charm that can the strongest quell, 

The sternest move. 



SKETCH. 

NEW YEAR'S DAY. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain. 
To run the twelvemonths' length again . 
I see the old bald-pated fellow, 
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, 
Adjust the unimpair'd machine. 
To wheel the equal, dull routine. 

The absent lover, minor heir, 

In vain assail him with their prayer. 

Deaf as my friend he sees them press, 

Nor makes the hour one moment less. 

Will you (the Major's with the hounds. 

The happy tenants share his rounds ; 

Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day,* 

And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) ; 



* This young lady was drawing a picture of Coila 
from the Vision, see page 69. 



From housewife caves a nr..nute borrow — 

— That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow- 

And join with me a moralizing, 

This day's propitious to be wise in. 

First, what did yesternight deliver ; 

" Another year is gone for ever." 

And what is this day's sti'ong suggestion ! 

" The passing moment's all we rest on !" 

Rest an — for what ! What do we here ? 

Or why regard the passing year ? 

Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore, 

Add to our date one minute more ? 

A few days may — a few years must — 

Repose us in the silent dust. 

Then, is it wise to damp our bliss ! 

Yes, all such reasonings are amiss ! 

The voice of nature loudly cries. 

And many a message from the skies. 

That something in us never dies : 

That on this frail, uncertain state, 

Hang matters of eternal weight ; 

That future-life in worlds unknown 

Must take its hue from this alone : 

Whether as heavenly glory bright, 

Or dark as misery's woeful night — 

Since then, my honour'd first of friends, 

On this poor being all depends : 

Let us th' important now employ, 

And live as those who never die. 

Tho' you, with days and honours crown*d. 

Witness that filial circle round, 

(A sight life's sorrows to repulse, 

A sight pale envy to convulse) 

Others now claim your chief regard — 

Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 



EXTEMPORE, 

ON THE LATE 

MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE,* 

A UTHOK OF THE PHILOSOPHY OF NATURAL MU 
TORY, AND MEMBER OF THE ANTIQUARIAN 
AND ROYAL SOCIETIES OF EDINBURGH. 

To Crochallan came 
The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout, the same ; 
His bristling beard just rising in its might, 
'Twas four long nights and days to shaving 

night. 
His uncombed grizzly locks wild - staring, 

thatch' d, 
A head for thought profound and clear, ua- 

match'd ; 
Yet, tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude, 
His heart was warm, benevolent and good. 



* Mr, Smellie, and our poet, were both members of 
a club in Edinburgh, under the name of CroehallaE 
Fencibles. 



?2 BURNS' WORKS 

POETICAL INSCRIPTION 



AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE, 

AT KERROUCHTRY, THE SEAT OF MR. HERON- 
WRITTEN IN SUMMER, 1795. 

Tnoa of an independent mind, 

With soul resolved, with soul resigned ; 

Prepared power's proudest frown to brave, 

Who wilt not be, nor have a slave ; 

Virtue alone vvho dost i-evere, 

Thy own reproach alone dost fear, 

Approach this shrine, and worship here. 



SONNET, 



THE DEATH OF MR. RIDDEL. 

No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more. 
Nor pour your descant grating on my ear : 
Thou young-eyed Spring thy charms I can^ 
not bear ; 
More welcome were to me grim Winter's wild^ 
est roar. 

How can ve please, ye flowers, with all your 
dies . 
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend 
How can I to the tuneful strain attend? 
That strain pours round th' untimely tomb 
where Riddel lies.* 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe. 
And soothe the Virtues weeping on this bier ; 
j The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer, 

I Is in his ' narrow house' for ever darkly low. 

I Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet ; 
I Me, niem'ry of my loss will only meet. 



MONODY 



A LADY FAI\IED FOR HER CAPRICE. 

How cold is that bosom which folly once fir'd, 
How pale is that cheek where the rouge late- 
ly glisten *d •. 
How silent that tongue which the echoes oft 
tired, 
How dull is that ear which to flattery so 
listened. 



If soirow and anguish their exit await, 

From friendship and dearest affection re 
moved ; 

How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate. 

Thou diedsit unwept, as thou livedst unloved 

Loves, graces, and virtues, I call not on you ; 

So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a 
tear : 
But come, all ye offspring of folly so true, 

And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cc.l bier. 

We'll search through the garden for each silly 
flower. 
We'll roam through the forest for each idle 
weed ; 
But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, 

For none e'er approach'd her but rued the 
rash deed. 

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the 
lay ; 
Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; 
There keen indignation shall dart on her prey, 
Which spurning contempt shall redeem frora 
his ire. 



THE EPITAPH. 

Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, 
What once was a butterfly gay iu life's 
beam : 

Want only of wisdom denied her respect, 
Want only of goodness deuied her esteem. 



• Robert Riddel, Esq. of Friar's Carse, a very wor- 
thy character, and one to whom our bard thought 
himself under many obligations. 



ANSWER TO A MANDATE 

SENT BY THE SURVEYOR OF THE WINDOWS, 
CARRIAGES, &C. TO EACH FARMER, ORDER- 
ING HIM TO SEND A SIGNED LIST OF HIS 
HORSES, SERVANTS, WHEEL-CARRIAGES, &C. 
AND WHETHER HE WAS A MARRIED MAN 
OR A BACHELOR, AND WHAT CHILDREN 
THEY HAD. 

Sir, as your mandate did request, 

I send you here a faithfu' list, 

My horses, servants, carts, and graith, 

To which I'm free to tak my aith. 

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, 

I hae four brutes o* gallant mettle, 

As ever drew before a pettle. 

Rly hand-afore,* a guid auld has been, 

And wight and wilfu' a' his days seen ; 

My hand-u-hin,-\ a guid brown filly, 

Wha aft has borne me safe frae Kiliie ;^ 



» The fore-horse on the left-hand, in the plougJu 
f The hindmost on the left-hand, in the plough. 
i Kilmainock. 



POEMS. 



73 



Ind your aiild borough mony a time, 
In days when riding was nae crime : 
My fur-a-hin,* a guid, grey beast, 
As e'er in tug or tow was traced : 
The fourth, a Highland Donald hasty, 
A d-inn'd red-wud, Kilburnie blastit-. 
For-by a cowte, of cowtes the wule, 
As ever ran before a tail ; 
An' he be spared to be a beast, 
He'll draw me fifteen pund at least. 

Wheel carriages I hae but few, 
Three carts, and twa are feckly new, 
An auld wheel-barrow, mair for token, 
4e leg and baith the trams are broken ; 
[ made a poker o' the spindle, 
\nd my auld mither brunt the trundle. 
For men, I've three mischievous boys, 
Run-deils for rantin and for. noise ; 
\ gadsman ane, a thresher t'other. 
Wee Davoc bauds the nowt in fother. 
{ rule them, as I ougbt, discreetly, 
\.nd often labour them completely, 
ind aye on Sundays duly nightly, 
4 on the questions tairge them tightly, 
"Till, faith; wee Davoc 's grown sae gleg, 
(Tho' scarcely langer than my leg) 
He'll screed you aif effectual calling, 
As fast as ony in the dwalling. 

I've nane in female servant station, 
Lord keep me aye frae a' temptation ! 
I hae nae wife, and that my bliss is, 
And ye hae laid nae tax on misses ; 
Foi weans I'm mair than weel contented. 
Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted : 
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess, 
She stares the daddie in her face, 
Enough of ought ye like but grace. 
But her, my bonny, sweet, wee lady, 
I've said enough for her alreaay, 
And if ye tax her or her mither. 
By the L — d ye'se get them a' thegither ! 

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, 

Nae kind of license out I'm taking. 

Thro' dut and dub for hie I'll paidle, 

Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; 

I've sturdy stumps, the Lord be thankit ! 

And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it. 

This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it. 
The day and date as under notet ; 
Then know all ye whom it concerns, 
Subscripsi huic. 

ROBERT BURNS. 



« T!ie hindmost on the right-hand, in the plough. 



IMPROMPTU, 



S BIRTH-DAT, 



4th November, 1793. 

Old Winter with his frosty beard, 
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd ; 
" What have I done of all the year. 
To bear this hated doom severe ? 
My cheerless sons no pleasure know ; 
Night's horrid car dragS; dreary, slow : 
My dismal months no joys are crowning, 
But spleeny English hanging, drowning. 

Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil ; 

To counterbalance all this evil ; 

Give me, and I've no more to say. 

Give me Maria's natal day ! 

That brilliant gift will so enrich me. 

Spring, Summer, Autumn cannot match me :* 

" 'Tis done !" says Jove ; so ends my story, 

And Winter once rejoiced in glory. 



ADDRESS TO A LADY. 

Oh wert thou in the cauld blast, 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea, 
My plaidie to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee : 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw. 
Thy bield should be my bosom. 

To share it a', to share it a'. 

Or were I in the wildest waste, 

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, 
The desert were a paradise. 

If thou wert there, if thou wert there. 
Or were I -saonarch o' the globe, 

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign ; 
The brightest jewel in my crown 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queea 



TO A YOUNG LADY, 



MISS JESSY L- 



-, OF DUMFRIES; 
WITH BOOKS WHICH THE BARE PRESENTED HKB« 

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair. 
And with them take the poet's prayer ; 
That fate may in her fairest page, 
With every kindliest, best presage 
Of future bliss, enrol thy name : 
With native worth, and spotless fame, 
And wakeful caution, still aware 
Of ill — but chief, man's felon snare ; 
All blameless joys on earth we find. 
And all the treasures of the mind — 
These be thy guardian and reward , 
So prays thy fkitliful friend, the bard. 



74. 



BQRNS' WORKS. 



SONNET, 

WRITTEN ON IHE 25tH JANUARY, 1793 THE 
BIRTH-DAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A 
THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK. 

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, 
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain. 
See aged Winter 'mid his surly reign, 

At thy blythe carol clears his furrowed brow. 

So in lone poverty's dominion drear, 

Sits meek content with light unanxious heart. 
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, 

Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. 

I thank thee, Author of this opening -day ! 

Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient 
skies ! 

Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys. 
What wealth could never give nor take away ! 

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, 
The mite high heaven bestowed, that mite with 
thee I'll share. 



EXTEMPORE, 



TO MB. S Ej 

ON REFUSING TO DINE WITH HIM, AFTER HAV- 
ING BEEN PROMISED THE FIRST OF COM- 
PANY, AND THE FIRST OF COOKERY, 17th 
DECEMBER, 1795. 

No more of your guests, be they titled or not. 
And cookery the first in the nation : 

Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit. 
Is proof to all other temptation. 



TO MR. S— E. 

WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER. 

O HAD the malt thy strength of mind, 
Or hops the flavour of thy wit ; 

'Twere drink for first of human Idnd, 
A gift that e'en for S — e were fit. 

Jkbusalem Tavern, Dumfries. 



POEM, 

ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OF 
EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1796. 

Friend of the poet, tried and leal, 
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal ; 
Alake, alake, the meikle deil, 

Wi' a' his witches 
Are at it, skelpin' ! jig and reel, 

In my poor pouches. 



T, modestly, fu' fain wad iiint It> 
That one pound one, I sairly want it; 
If wi' the hizzie down ye send it, 

It would be kind ; 
And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted 

I'd bear't in mind. 

So may the auld year gang out moaning 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
Wi' double plenty o'er the loaning 

To thee and thine ; 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning 

The hail design. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Ye've heard this while how I've been licket 
And by fell death was nearly nicket : 
Grim loon ! he gat me by the fecket. 

And sair me sheuk ; 
But, by guid luck, I lap a wicket. 

And turn'd a neuk. 

But by that health, I've got a share o't, 
And by that life I'm promised mair o't, 
My hale and weel I'll tak' a care o't 

A tentier way : 
Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't. 

For ance and aye. 



SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD 
OFFENDED. 

The friend whom wild from wisdom's way, 
The fumes of wine infuriate send ; 

(Not moony madness more asti-ay) 

Who but deplores that hapless friend V 

Wine was th' insensate frenzied part, 
Ah why should I such scenes outlive ! 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 
'Tis thine to pity and forgive. 



POEM ON LIFE, 

ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSIKH, 
DUMrR.lES, 1796. 

My honoured colonel, deep I feel 
Your interest in the poet's weal ; 
Ah ! how sma' heart hae I to speel 

The steep Parnassus, 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill. 

And potion glasses. 

O what a canty world were it, 

Would pain and care, and sickness spare it ! 

And fortune, favour, worth, and merit, 

As they deserve ; 
(And aye a' rowth, roast beef and claret ; 

Syne wha would sta'-^e") ? 



POEMS. 



75 



Dame life, tho' fiction out may trick her. 
And in paste gems and frippery deck her ; 
Oh ! flickering, feeble, and unsicker 

I've found her still. 
Aye wavering like the willow wicker, 

'Tween good and ill. 

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, 
Watches like baudrons by a rattan, 
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on 

Wi' felon ire ; 
Syne, whip ! his tail ye' 11 ne'er cast saut on, 

He's afi" like fire. 

Ah Nick ! ah Nick, it is na fair. 
First showing us the tempting ware, 
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare, 

To put us daft ; 
Syne weave unseen thy spider's snare 

O hell's damn'd waft. 

Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes by, 
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh. 
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy, 

And hellish pleasure ; 
Already in thy fancy's eye. 

Thy sicker treasure. 

Soon heels o'er gowdie ! in he gangs. 
And like a sheep-head on a tangs, 
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 

And murdering wrestle. 
As dangling in the wind he hangs 

A gibbet's tassel 

But lest you think I am uncivil. 

To plague you with this draunting drivel, 

Abjuring a' intentions evil, 

I quat my pen ; 
The Lord preserve us frae the devil ! 

Amen ! amen ! 



ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACHE. 

My curse upon your venom'd stang, 
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang ; 
And thro' ray lugs gies mony a twang, 

Wi' gnawing vengeance ; 
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, 

Like racking engines ! 

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, 
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes ; 
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan j 
But thee — thou hell o' a' diseases. 

Aye mocks our groan ! 

Adown my beard the slavers trickle ; 
I throw the wee stools o'er the meikle. 
As round the fire the giglets keckle. 

To see me loup ; 
While raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 



O' a' the num*rous haman dools, 
111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty stools. 
Or worthy friends raked i' the mools. 

Sad sight to see ! 
The tricks o' knaves or fash o' fools. 

Thou bear'st the gree. 

Where'er that place be, priests ca' hell. 
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell. 
And ranked plagues their numbers tell, 

In dreadfii* raw, 
Thou, Tooth-ache, surely bear'st the bell, 

Amang them a' ! 

O thou grim mischief-making chiel. 
That gars the notes o' discord squeel, 
'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 

In gore a shoe-thick ; — 
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weel 

A towmond's Tooth- Achft 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq 

OF FINTftY, 
ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR. 

I CALL no goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns ; 
Friend of my life ! my ardent spirit burns. 
And all the tribute of my heart returns. 
For boons accorded, goodness ever new, 
The gift still dearer as the giver you. 

Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light ! 
And all ye many sparkling stars of night ; 
If aught that giver from my mind efiace ; 
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; 
Then roll to me, along your wandering sphere*. 
Only to number out a villain's years ! 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 

An honest man here lies at rest, 
As e'er God with his image blesJ;, 
The friend of man, the friend of truth ; 
The friend of age, and guide of youth : 
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd. 
Few heads with knowledge so inform'd : 
If there's another world, he lives in bliss j 
If there is none, he made the best of this. 



A GRACE BEFORE DINNER 

O Thou, who kindly dost provide 

For ev'ry creature's want ! 
We bless thee, God of nature wide, 

For all thy goodness lent ; 



76 



BURNS' WORKS. 



And if It please thee, heavenly guide, 
Dlay never worse be sent ; 

But ^vhether granted, or denied, 
Lord bless us with content ! 
jLmen ! 



ro MY DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, 

MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP, 

ON SENSIBILITY. 

Sensibility how charming, 

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell; 

But distress, with horrors arming, 
Thou hast also known too well ! 

Fairest flower, behold the lily, 

Blooming in the sunny ray ; 
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, 

See it prostrate on the clay. 



Hear the wood-lark charm the fbresJ", 
Telling o'er his little joys : 

Hapless bird ! a prey the surest, 
To each pirate of the skies. 

Dearly bought the hidden treasure, 
Finer feelings can bestow : 

Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure, 
Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 



A VERSE, 



COMPOSED AND REPEAtEI.' BY BURNS, TO THB 
MAST3R OF THE HOUSE, OK TAKING LEAVE 
AT A PLACE IN THE HIGHLANDS WHERE HE 
HAD BEEN HOSPITABLY ENTERTAINED. 

When death's dark stream I ferry o'er ; 

A time that surely shall come ; 
In heaven itself, I'll ask no more, 

Than just a Highland welcome. 



ADDITIONAL PIECES OF POETRY, 

From the Reliques, Published in 1808, 

BY MR. CROaiEK. 

[The contributions were poured so copiously upon Dr. Currie that selection became a duty, and ck. 
put aside several interesting pieces both in prose and verse, which would have done honour to 
the Poet's memory: But besides these there were othtr pieces extant, which did not come 
under the Doctor's notice : All of them, both of the rejected and discovered description, have 
since been collected and published by Mr. Croraek, whose personal devotion to the Poet, and 
generally to the poetry of his country, rendered him a most assiduous collector. The additional 
pieces of poetry so collected and published by Cromek, are given here. The additional songa 
and correspondence, taken from the Reliques and his more recent publication, " Select Scot- 
tish Songs," will each appear in the proper place.] 



ELEGY 

ON 

MR. WILLIAM CREECH, 

BOOKSELLER, EDINBURGH. 
I. 

AULD chuckle Reekie's * sair distrest, 
Down droops her ance weel burnish't crest, 
Nae joy her bonie buskit nest 

Can yield ava, 
Her darling bird that she loe's best, 

Willie's awa ! 



♦ Edinbui^Bh- 



XL 



O Willie was a witty wight, 

And had o' things an unco' slight; 

Auld Reekie ay he keepit tight. 

And trig an' brawj 
But now they'll busk her like a fi'ight, 
Willie's awa ! 



in. 

The stiffest o' them a* he bow'd, 
The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd ; 
They durst nae mair than he allow'd. 
That was a law : 
We've lost » birkie weel worth gowd, 
Willie's awa ' 



POEMS. 



77 



IV. 

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks and fools, 
Frae colleges and boarding schools. 
May sprout like simmer puddock- stools 

In glen or shaw ; 
He wlia could brush them down to moolg 
Willie's awa ! 



The breth'ren o' the Commerce-Chaumer * 
May mourn their lo?vS wi' doolfu* clamour ; 
He was a dictionar and grammar 

Amang them a' ; 
I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer 
Willie's awa ! 

VI. 

Nae mair we see his levee door 
Philosophers and Poets pour,f 
And toothy critics by the score 

In bloody raw ! 
The adjutant o' a' the core 

Willie's awa ' 



I And lastly, streekit out to bleach 

In winter snaw ; 
When I forget thee ! Wu.lie Creech, 
Tho' far awa ' 

XII. 

May never wicked fortune touzle him ! 
ISIay never wicked men b unboozle him ' 
Until a pow as auld's INIethusalem ! 

He canty claw ! 
Then to the blessed, New Jerusalem 

Fleet wing awa I 



VII. 

Now worthy G y's latin face, 

T -r's and G -'s modest grace ; 

M'K e, S 1, such a brace 

As Rome ne'er saw ; 
They a' maun meet some ither place, 

Willie's awa ! 

VIII. 
Poor Burns — e'en Scotch drink canna quicken, 
He cheeps like some bewildered chicken, 
Scar'd frae it's minnie and the cleckiu 
By hoodie-craw ; 
Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin', 
Willie's awa ! 

IX. 

Now ev'ry sour-mou'd grinin' blellum, 
And Calvin's fock, are fit to fell him ; 
And self-conceited critic skellum 

His quill may draw ; 
He wha could brawlie ward their helium 
Willie's awa ! 



Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped. 
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 
And Ettrick banks now roaring red 

While tempests blaw ; 
But every joy and pleasure's fled 

Willie's awa ! 

XL 

May I be slander's common speech ; 
A text for infamy to preach ; 



* TheChamberofCommerceof Edinburgh ofwhleh 
Mr. C. was Secretary. 



ELEG^ 



PEG NICHOLSON.* 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay marey 
As ever trode on airn ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 
And past the Mouth o' Cairn. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 
And rode thro' thick and thin ; 
But now she's floating down the Nitb, 
And wanting even the skin. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 
And ance she bore a priest ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 
For Solway fish a feast. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 
Aad the priest he rode her sair : 
And much oppressed and bruised she wa» , 
—As priest-rid cattle are, &c. &c. 



ODE TO LIBERTY. 

(Imperfect). 

[In a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, the poet says:— The suo. 
ject is liberty: Y©u know, my honoured frend 
how dear the theme is to me. I design it an iriegu 
lar Ode for General Washington's birth-day. Aiier 
having mentioned the degeneracy of other kingdoms 
I come to Scotland thus] : 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among. 
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song, 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes ; 
Where rs that soul of freedom fled ? 
Immingled with the mighty dead ! 

Beneath that hallowed turf where Wallace 
lies ! 



• Margaret Nicholson, the maniac, whose visitations 
very much alarmed George the Third for his life. In 



f Many hterary gentlemen were accustomed to meet na-amg their steeds, the poet and his friend Nicol seem 

at Mr. Creech's house at breakfast. Burns often met to have had a pr. ference, in the way of doing honour. 

With them there, when he en led. and hence the name of course, for the worthies who had used freedom with 

a Levee. both priest and king 



78 BURNS' WORKS. 


Hear it not. Wallace, in thy bed of death ! 


Do Thou, All Good! for sucli Thou art. 


Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep ; 


In shades of iarkness hide. 


Disturb not ye the hero's sleep, 




Nor give the coward secret breath. — 


Where with intention I have err*d, 


Is this the power in freedom's war 


No other plea I have. 


That wont to bid the battle rage ? 


But, Thou art good ; and goodness stUI 


Behold that eye which shot immortal hate, 


Delighteth to forgive. 


Crushing the despot's proudest bearing, 




That arm which, nerved with thundering fate, 
Braved usurpation's boldest daring ! 






One quenched in darkness like the sinking star. 




And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless 
age. 


DESPONDENCY; 




A HYMN. 


A PRAYER— IN DISTRESS. 


Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene 




Have I so found it full ci pleasing charms ! 


THOU Great Being ! what thou art 


Some drops of joy with draughts of ill be- 


Surpasses me to know ; 


tween : 


Yet sure I am, that known to thee 


Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing 


Are all thy works below. 


storms : 




Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ? 


Thy creature here before thee stands, 


Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode? 


All wretched and distrest ; 


For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; 


Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 


I tremble to approach an angry God, 


Obey thy high behest. 


And justly smart neath his sin-avenging rod. 


Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act 


Fain would I say, * Forgive my foul offence !' 


From cruelty or wrath ; 


Fain promise never more to disobey ; 


0, free my weary eyes from tears. 


But, should my author health again dispense, 


Or close t'liem fast in death ! 


Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; 




Again in folly's path might go astray ; 


But if I must afflicted be. 


Again exalt the brute and sink the man ; 


To suit some wise design ; 


Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray, 


Then man mv soul with firm resolves 


Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan ? 


To bear and not repme ! 


Who sin so oft have mourn'd yet to temptatioc 
ran? 

Thou, great governor of all below ! 




A PRAYER, 


If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, 


WHEN FAINTIXG FITS, AND OTHER ALARMING 


Or still the tumult of the raging sea ; 


SYMPTOMS OF A PLEURISY OR SOME OTHER 


With that controling pow'r assist ev'n me, 


DANGEROUS DISORDER, WHICH INDEED 


Those headlong furious passions to confine ; 


STILL THREATENS ME, FIRST PUT NATURE 


For all unfit I feel my powers to be, 


ON THE ALARM. 


To rule their torrent in th' allowed line, 




0, aid me with thy help. Omnipotence Divine > 


THOU unknown, Almighty Cause 




Of all my hope and fear ! 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour, 






Perhaps I must appear. 






LINES ON RELIGION. 


If I have wander'd in those paths 




Of life 1 ought to shun ; 


" 'Tis this, my frieni, that streaks our morning 


AS something, loudly, in my breast, 


bright ; 


Remonstrates I have done ; 


'Tis this, that gilds the horror of our night ! 




When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are 


Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me 


iaw ; 


With passions wild and strong ; 


Wa^n friends are faithless, or when foes pursue; 


And list'nirig to their witching voice 


'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, 


Kas often led me wrong. 


Disarms affliction, or repels its dart : 




Within the breast bids purest raptures rise. 


Where human weahness has come short, 


Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless 


Or frailty stept aside. 


skies '■ 



»OEMS. 



79 



EPISTLES IN VERSE 



TO J. LAPRAIK. 

Sept. \'?.th, 1785. 
Gun speed an' furder to you Johny, 
Guid health, hale han's, an' weather bony ; 
Now when ye're nickan down fu' canny 

The staflF o' bread, 
May ye ne'er want a stoup o' brany 

To clear your head. 

May Boreas never thresh your rigs, 
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, 
Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs 

Like drivin' wrack ; 
But may the tapmast grain that wags 

Come to the sack. 

I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin' at it, 

But bitter, daudin showers hae wat it, 

Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it 

Wi' muckle wark. 
An' took my jocteleg * an' whatt it. 

Like ony dark. 

It's now twa month that Vm your debtor, 
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, 
Abusin' me for harsh ill nature 

On holy men, 
While deil a hair yoursel ye're better. 

But mair profane. 

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells. 
Let's sing about our noble sels ; 
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills 

To help, or roose us. 
But browster wives'^ an' whisky stills. 

They are the muses. 

Your friendship Sir, I winna quat it. 

An' if ye mak' objections at it, 

Then hau* in nieve some day we'll knot it, 

An' witness take. 
An' when wi' Usquabae we've wat it 

It winna break. 

But if the beast and branks he spar'd 
Till kye be gaun without the herd. 
An' a' the vittel in the ydfrd. 

An' theekit right, 
I mean your ingle-side to guard 

Ae winter night. 

Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitae 

Shall make us baith sae blythe an' witty. 

Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty. 

An* be as canty 
As ye were nine year less than thretty, 

Sweet ane-an'-twenty. 



But stooks are cowpet * w'C the blast, 
An' now the sinn keeks ,« the west 
Then I maun rin amang the rest 

An' quat my chanter; 
Sae I subscribe mysel in haste, 

Your's, Rab the Ranter. 



REV. JOHN M'MATH, 

INCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WILLIe's PRAYERj 
WHICH HE HAD REQUESTED. 

Sept. nth, 1785. 
While at the stock the shearers cow'r 
To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r, 
Or in gulravagef rinnin scow'r 

To pass the time, 
To you I dedicate the hour 

la idle rhyme. 

My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet 

On gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet, 

Is grown right eerie now she's done it, 

Lest they shou'd blame her, 
An' rouse their holy thunder on it 

And anathem her. 

I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy, 
That I, a simple, countra bardie, 
Shou'd meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, 

Wba, if they ken me, 
Can easy, wi' a single wordie. 

Louse h-11 upon me. 

But I gae mad at their grimaces. 
Their sighan, cantan, graje-proud faces. 
Their three-mile prayers, an hauf-mile graces, 

Their raxan conscience, 
Whaws greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces 

Waur nor their nonsense. 

There's Gaun, \ miska't waur than a beast, 
Wha has mair honor in his breast 
Than mony scores as guid's the priest 

Wha sae abus't him. 
An' may a bard uo crack his jest 

What way they've use't him. 

See him, |j the poor man's friend in need. 
The gentleman in word an' deed, 
An' shall his fame an' honour bleea 

By worthless skelluras, 
An' not a muse erect her head 

To cowe the blellums ? 



* Jocteleg— B. knife. 
♦ Browster wires— Alehouse wives. 



• Cowpet — Tumbled over. 

t Gidravage — Running in a confused, disorderly 
manner, like boys when leaving school. 

% Gavin Hamilton, Esq. 

II 'Hie poet has introduced the two first lines of this 
stanza into the dedication of his works to Mr. Hamii 
ton. 



1 




1 


80 BURNS* 


WORKS. 




O Pope, had I tliy satire's darts 


Impute it not, good Sir, in ane 




To gie the rascals their deserts, 


Wbase heart ne'er wrang'd ye 




I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts, 


But to his utmost \v'ould befriend 




An' tell aloud 


Ought that belang'd ye. 




Their jugglin' hocus pocus arts 






To cheat the crowd. 

God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be, 
Nor am I ev'n the thing I cou'd be, 






TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. 




But twenty times, I rather wuu'd be 


MAUCHLINE. , 




An atheist clean. 






Than under gospel colours hid be 


(recommending a boy). 




Just for a screen. 


3Iosffaville, May 3, 1786. 




An honest man may like a glass, 


I HOLn it. Sir, my bounden duty 




An honest man may like a lass, 


To warn you how that Master Tootie, 




But mean revenge, an' malice fause 


Alias, Laird M'Gaun,* 




He'll still disdain. 


Was here to hire yon lad away 




An' then cry zeal for gospel laws, 


'Bout whom ye spak the tither day. 




Like some we ken. 


An' wad hae don't aff ban' « 
But lest he learn the callan tricks, 




They take religion in their mouth ; 


As faith I muckle doubt him, 




They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth. 


Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks. 




For what ? to gie their malace skouth 


An' tellin' lies about them ; 




On some puir wight, 


As lieve then I'd have then. 




An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth, 


Your clerkship he should sair, 




To ruin streight. 


If sae be, ye may be 
Not fitted otherwhere. 




All hail, religion ! maid divine ! 






Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, 


Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough, 




Who in her rough imperfect line 


An' 'bout a house that's rude an' rough, 




Thus daurs to name thee ; 


The boy might learn to swear 




To stigmatize felse friends of thine 


But then wi' tjou, he'll be sae taught. 




Can ne'er defame thee. 


An' get sic fair example straught, 
I hae na ony feai*. 




Tho' blotch't an' foul wi' mony a stain. 


Ye'll catechise him every quirk, 




An' far unworthy of thy train. 


An' shore him weel wi' hell; 




With trembling voice I tune my strain 


An' gar him follow to the kirk 




To join with those, 


— Ay when ye gang yoursel. 


1 


Who boldly dare thy cause maintain 


If ye then, maun be then 


1 


1 In spite of foes : 


Frae hame this comin Friday, 
Then please Sir, to lea'e Sir, 




In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, 


The orders wi' your lady. 




In spite of undermining jobs. 






In spite o' dark banditti stabs 


My word of honour I hae gien. 




At worth an' merit, 


In Paisley John's, that night at e'en. 




By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes. 


To meet the Warld's worm f 




But hellish spuit. 


To try to get the twa to gree. 
An' name the airles f an' the fee, 




O Ayr, my dear, my native ground, 


In legal mode an' form : 




Within thy presbyterial bound 


I ken he weel a Snick can draw, 




A candid liberal band is found 


When simple bodies let him ; 




Of public teachers, 


An' if a Devil be at a'. 




1 As men, as Christians too renown'd 


In faith he's sure to get hir.^ 




i An' manly preachers. 


To phrase you an' praise you. 
Ye ken your Laureat scorns : 




Sir, in that circle you are nam'd ; 


The pray'r still, you share still, 




1 Sir, in that circle you are fam'd ; 


Of grateful Minstrel Burns. 




An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd, 
(Which gies you honor) 






♦ Master Tootie then lived in Mauchline; a dealer 




Even Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd. 


in Cows. It was his common practice to cut the nicks 
or markings from the horns of cattle, to disguise their 
age. — He was an artful trick-contriving character; 




An* winning-manner. 






hence he is called a Snick-drawer. In tlie poet's 




Pardon this freedom I have ta'en, 
1 An* if impertinent I've been, 

i 


" Address to the DeU," lie styles that august personage 
an auld, snick-drawing dog ! 
t The Airles — Earnest money. 


! 









POEMS. 



81 



TO MR. M'ADAM, 

OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN, 

IN ANSWER TO AN OBLIGING LETTER HE SENT 

IN THE COMMENCEMENT OF MY POETIC 

CAREER. 

Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card, 

I trow it made me proud ; 
See wha taks notice o' the bard ! 

I lap and cry'd fu' loud. 

Now deil-ma care about their jaw, 

The senseless, gawky million ; 
I'll cock my nose aboon them a', 

I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan ! 

'Twas noble, Sir , 'twas like yoursel, 

To grant your high protection : 
A great man's smile, ye ken fu' well, 

Is ay a blest infection. 

Tho', by his * banes wha in a tub 

Match'd Macedonian Sandy ! 
On my ain legs thro' dirt and dub, 

I independent stand ay. — 

And when those legs to gude, warm kail, 

Wi' welcome canna bear me ; 
A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail, 

And barley-scone shall cheer me. 

Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath 

O' mony flow'ry simmers ! 
And bless your bonie lasses baith, 

I'm tald they're loosome kimmers ! 

And God bless young Dunaskin's laird, 

The blossom of our gentry ! 
And may he wear an auld man's beard, 

A credit to his country. 



TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, 

glenriddel, 

(extempore lines on returing a 
newspaper). 

Ellisland, Monday Evening, 
Your news and review. Sir, I've read through 
and through, Sir, 
With little admiring or blaming : 
The papers are barren of home-news or foreign, 
No murders or rapes worth the naming. 

Our friends the reviewers, those chippers and 
hewers. 

Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir ; 
But of meet, or unmeet, in a fabric complete, 

I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir. 



* Diogenes. 



My goose-quill too rude is t D tell all your good- 
ness 

Bestowed on your servant, the Poet ; 
Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun, 

And then all the world, Sir, should know it I 



TO TERRAUGHTY,* 

on his birth-day. 

Health to the Maxwells' vet'ran Chief ! 
Health, ay unsour'd by care or grief : 
Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sybil leaf. 

This natal morn, 
I see thy life is stuff o' prief, 

Scarce quite half wc'ffl*- 

This day thou metes threescore eleven, 
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven 
(The second sight, ye ken, is given 

To ilka Poet) 
On thee a tack o' seven times seven 

Will yet bestow it. 

If envious buckies view wi' sorrow 

Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow. 

May desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow, 

Nine miles an hour, 
Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, 

In brunstane stoure— 

But for thy friends, and they are mony, 
Baith honest men and lasses bonie. 
May couthie fortune, kind and caunie, 

In social glee, 
Wi' mornings blythe and e'enings funny 

Bless them and thee. 

Farweel, auld birkie ! Lord be near ye, 
And then the Deil he daurna steer ye 
Your friends ay love, your faes ay fear ye, 

For me, shame fa' me, 
If neist my heart I dinna wear ye 

While Burns they ca r 



THE VOWELS : 

A TALE. 

'TwAs where the birch and sounding thong 
are ply'd. 
The noisy domicile of pedant pride ; 
Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws. 
And cruelty directs the thickening blows ; 



* Mr. Maxwell, of Terraughty, near Dumfries 
This is the J. P. who, at the Excise Courts, called for 
Burns's reports : they shewed that //<>, »vhile he acted 
up to the law, could reconcile his duty with hujnaoi 
ty. ' Altho' an Exciseman he had a heart.' 



82 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Upon a time, Sir Abecr the great, 

In all his pedagogic powers elate, 

His awful chair of state resolves to mount, 

And call the trembling vowels to account. — 

First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight, 
But ah ! deform'd, dishonest to the sight ! 
His twisted head look'd backward on his way, 
And flagrant from the scourge he grunted ai ! 

Reluctant, E stalk'd in ; with piteous race 
The justling tears ran down his honest face ! 
That name, that well-worn name, and all his 

own, 
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne ! 
The pedaRt stifles keen the Roman sound, 
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound ; 
And next the title following close behind, 
Ue to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd. 

The cobweb'd gothic dome resounded, Y ! 
In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply : 
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round, 
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground ! 

In rueful apprehension enter'd O, 
The wailing minstrel of despairing woe ; 
Th* Inquisitor of Spain, the most expert. 
Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art: 
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, 
His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew ! 

As trembling U stood staring all aghast. 
The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast, 
In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right, 
Baptiz'd him ew, and kick'd him from his sight. 



A SKETCH. 

A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, 
And still his precious self his dear delight ; 
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets, 
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets. 
A man of fashion too, he made his tour, 
Learn'd vive la bagatelle, et vive I' amour ; 
So travell'd monkies their grimace improve, 
Polish their grin, nay sigh for ladies' love. 
Much specious lore but little understood ; 
Fineering oft outshines the solid wood : 
His solid sense — by inches you must tell, 
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell; 
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend, 
Still making work his selfish craft must mend. 



TO THE OWL; 

BY JOHN m'CREDDIE. 



Sad bird of night, what sorrow calls thee forth. 
To vent thy plaints thus in the midnight 
hour'' 



Is it some blast that gathers in the north, 
Threat'ning to nip the verdure of thy bow r ' 

Is it, sad owl, that autumn strips the shade,. 

And leaves thee here, unshelter'd and forlorn ? 
Or fear that winter will thy nest invade ? 

Or friendless melancholy bids thee mourn i 

Shut out, lone bird, from all the featherM train. 
To tell thy sorrows to th* unheeding gloora 

No friend to pity when thou dost complain. 
Grief all thy thought, and solitude thy home. 

Sing on sad mourner ! I will bless thy strain, 
And pleas'd in sorrow listen to thy song : 

Sing on sad mourner ! to the night complain, 
While the lone echo wafts thy notes along. 

Is beauty less, when down the glowing cheek 
Sad, piteous tears in native sorrows fall ? 

Less kind the heart when anguish bids it break? 
Less happy he who lists to pity's call ? 

Ah no, sad owl ! nor is thy voice less sweet. 
That sadness tunes it, and that grief is there ; 

That spring's gay notes, unskill'd, thou cansJ 
repeat ; 
That sorrow bids thee to the gloom repair : 

Nor that the treble songsters of the day, 

Are quite estranged, sad bird of night ! from 
thee ; 

Nor that the thrush deserts the evening spray. 
When darkness calls thee from thy reverie.— 

From some old tow'r, thy melancholy dome. 
While the gray walls and desert solitudes 

Return each note, responsive to the gloom 
Of ivied coverts and surrounding woods ; 

There hooting ; I will list more pleas'd to thee> 
Than ever lover to the nightingale ; 

Or drooping wretch, oppress'd with misery, 
Lending his ear to some condoling tale. 



EXTEMPORE, 

IN THE COURT OF SESSION. 

Tune—" Gillicrankle." 
Lord Advocate, Robert Dundas.. 

He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist. 

He quoted and he hinted, 
Till in a declamation-mist. 

His argument he tint it : 
He gaped for't, he graped for't, 

He fand it was awa, man ; 
But what his common sense came shor^ 

YiA eked out wi' law, man. 



POEMS. 



89 



Mr. Henry Erskink. 

Collected Harry stood awee, 

Then open'd out his arm, man ; 
His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e, 

And ey'd the gathering storm, man ! 
Like wind-driv'n hail it did assail, 

Or torrents owre a lin, man ; 
The Bench sae wise lift up their eyes, 

Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man. 



ON HEARING THAT THERE WAS FALSEHOOD IN 
THE REV. DR. B ^"s VERY LOOKS. 

That there is falsehood in his looks 

I must and will deny : 
They say their master is a knave — 

And sure they do not He. 



ADDRESS 

TO GENERAL DUMOURIER. 

(a parody on robin ADAia). 

You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier ; 
You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier. — 
How does Danipiere do ? 
\ye, and Bournonville too ? 
Why did they not come along with you, Du- 
mourier ? 

I will fic^ht France with you, Dumourier, — 

I will fight France with you, Dumourier : — 

I will fight France with you, 

I will take my chance with you ; 

By my soul I'll dance a dance with you, Dumou- 



Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; 

Then let us fight about, 

'Till freedom's spark is out. 

Then we'll be d-mned no doubt — ^Dumounei* 



EXTEMPORE EFFUSIONS. 

[The Poet paid a visit on horseback to Carlisle; whil 
he was at table his steed was turned out to graze in 
an enclosure, but wandered, probably in quest of 
better pasture, into an adjoining one: it was im- 
pounded by order of the Mavor — whose terra of of- 
fice expired next day :— The Muse thus delivered 
herself on the occasion] : 

Was e'er puir poet sae befitted. 
The mais'ter drunk — the horse committed ; 
Puir harmless beast ! take thee nae care, 
Thou'lt be a horse, when he's nae mair-(mayor^ 



TO A FRIEND, 

WITH A POUND OF SNUFF. 

O could I give thee India's wealth, 

As I this trifle send ; 
Why then the joy of both would be, 

To share it with a friend. 

But golden sands ne'er yet have graced 

The Heliconian stream ; 
Then take what gold can never buy, 

An honest Bard's esteem. 



* It is almost needless to observe that the «yag (rf 
Robin Adair, begins thus : — 

You're welcome to Paxton, Robin Adair ; 
You're welcome to Paxton, Robin Adair.— 
How does Johnny Mackerell do ? 
Aye, and Luke Gardener too ? 
Why did they not come along with yott, Robin 
Adair? 



ESSAY 

UPON 

SCOTTISH POETRY, 

INCLUDING THE POETRY OF BURNS, 

BY DR. CURRIE 



That Buttis had not the advantages of a clas- 
sical education, or of any degree of acquaintance 
with the Greek or Roman writers in their ori- 
ginal dress, has appeared in the history of his 
life. He acquired indeed some knowledge of the 
French language, but it does not appear that he 
was ever much conversant in French literat\ire, 
nor is there any evidence of his having derived 
any of his poetical stories from that source. 
With the English classics he became well ac- 
quainted in the course of his life, and the effects 
of this acquaintance are observable in his latter 
productions ; but the character and style of his 
poetry were formed very early, and the model 
which he followed, in as far as he can be said to 
have had one, is to be sought for in the works 
of the poets who have written in the Scottish 
dialect — in the works of such of them more es- 
pecially, as are familiar to the peasantry of Scot- 
land. Some observations on these may form a 
proper introduction to a more particular exami- 
nation of the poetry of Burns. The studies of 
the editor in this direction are indeed very re- 
cent and very imperfect. It would have been 
imprudent for him to have entered on this sub- 
ject at all, but for the kindness of Mr. Ramsay 
of Ochtertyre, whose assistance he is proud to 
acknowledge, and to whom the reader must as- 
cribe whatever is of any value in the follov/ing 
imperfect sketch of literary compositions in the 
Scottish idiom. 

It is a circumstance not a little curious, and 
\rhich does not seem to be satisfactorily explain- 
ed, that in the thirteenth century the language 
of the two British nations, if at all different, 
differed only in dialect, the Gaelic in the one, 
like the Welch and Armoric in the other, being 
confined to the mountainous districts.* The 
English under the Edwards, and the Scots under 
Wallace and Bruce, spoke the same language. 
We may observe also, that in Scotland the his- 
tory ascends to a period nearly as remote as in 
England. Barbour and Blind Harry, James the 
First, Dunbar, Douglas, and Lindsay, who liv- 



• HUtorical Esijys on Scottish Song, p. 20, by Mr. 
aitsun. 



ed in the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteeatfc. cen- 
turies, were coeval with the fathers of poetry in 
England ; and in the opinion of Mr. Wharton, 
not inferior to them in genius or in composition. 
Though the language of the two countries gra- 
dually deviated from each other during this pe- 
riod, yet the diffei'ence on the whole was not 
considerable ; nor perhaps greater than between 
the different dialects of the different parts oi 
England in our own time. 

At the death of James the Fifth, in 1542, the 
language of Scotland was in a flourishing condi- 
tion, wanting only writers in prose equal to those 
in verse. Two circumstances, propitious on the 
whole, operated to prevent this. The first was 
the passion of the Scots for composition in La- 
tin ; and the second, the accession of James the 
Sixth to the English throne. It may easily be 
imagined, that if Buchanan had devoted his ad- 
mirable talents, even in part, to the cultivation of 
his native tongue, as was done by the revivers of 
letters in Italy, he would have left compositions 
in that language which might have excited other 
men of genius to have followed his example,f 
and give duration to the language itself. The 
union of the two crowns in the person of James, 
overthrew all reasonable expectation of this kind. 
That monarch, seated on the English throne, 
would no longer be addressed in the rude dia- 
lect in which the Scottish clergy had so often 
insulted his dignity. He encouraged Latin or 
English only, both of which he prided himself 
on writing with purity, though he himself never 
could acquire the English pronunciation, but 
spoke with a Scottish idiom and intonation to 
the last. Scotsmen of talents declined writing in 
their native language, which they knew was not 
acceptable to their learned and pedantic mo- 
narch ; and at a time when national prejudice 
and enmity prevailed to a great degree, they dis- 
dained to study the nicities of the English tongue, 
though of so much easier acquisition than a 
dead language. Lord Stirling and Drummond 
of Hawthornden, the only Scotsmen who wrote 



t eg. 
rum, icc. 



The Authors ®f the Delicice Poetarum Scotot 



I r-- 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



poet^rv in those times, were exceptions. They 
studied the language of England, and composed 
in it with precision and elegance, They were 
however the last of their countrymen who de • 
sei-ved to he considered as poets in that century. 
The muses of Scotland sunk into silence, and 
did not again raise their voices for a period of 
eighty years. 

To what causes are we to attribute this ex- 
treme depression among a people comparatively 
iearned, enterprising, and ingenious ? Shall 
we impute it ti the fanaticism of the covenan- 
ters, or tc the tyranny of the house of Stuart 
after their restoration to the throne ? Doubt- 
less these causes operated, but they seem un- 
equal to account for the eflPect. In England si- 
milar distractions and oppressions took place, yet 
poetry flourished there in a remarkable degree. 
During this period, Cowley, and Waller, and 
Dryden sung, and Milton raised his strain of un- 
paralleled grandeur. To the causes already 
mentioned, another must be added, in account- 
ing for the torpor of Scottish literature — the 
want of a proper vehicle for men of genius to 
employ. The civil wai-s had frightened away 
the Latin muses, and no standard had been es- 
tablished of the Scottish tongue, which was de- 
viating still farther from the pure English idiom. 

The revival of literature in Scotland may be 
dated from the establishment of the union, or 
rather from the extinction of the rebellion in 
1715. The nations being finally incorporated, 
it was cleai-ly seen that their tongues must in 
the end incorporate also ; or rather indeed that 
the Scottish language must degenerate into a 
provincial idiom, to be avoided by those who 
would aim at distinction in letters, or rise to 
eminence in the united legislature. 

Soon after this, a band of men of genius ap- 
peared, who studied the EngHsh classics, and 
imitated their beauties in the same manner as 
they studied the classics of Greece and Rome. 
They had admirable models of composition late- 
ly presented to them by the writers of the reign 
of Queen Anne ; particularly in the periodical 
papers published by Steele, Addison, and their 
associated friends, which circulated widely 
through Scotland, and diifused every where a 
taste for purity of style and sentiment, and for 
critical disquisition. At length, the Scottish 
writers succeeded in English composition, and a 
union was formed of the literary talents, as well 
as of the legislatures of the two nations. On 
this occasion the poets took the lead. While 
Henry Home,* Dr. Wallace,, und their learned 
associates, were only laying in their intellectual 
Btores,, and studying to dear themselves of their 
Scottish idioms, Thomson, Mallet, and Hamil- 
ton of Bangour, had made their appearance be- 
fore the public, and been enrolled on the list of 
English poets. The writers in prose followed 
— a numerous and powerful band, and poured 
their ample stores into the general stream of Bri- 



« Lord Kaims 



tish literature. Scotland possessed her fou.' uok 
versities before the accession of James to the 
English throne. Immediately before the union, 
she acquired her parochial schools. These es- 
tablishments combining happily together, made 
the elements of knowledge of easy acquisition 
and presented a direct path, by which the ar- 
dent student might be carried along into the re- 
cesses of science or learning. As civil broils 
ceased, and faction and prejudice gradually died 
away, a wider field was opened to literary ambi- 
tion, and the influence of the Scottish institu- 
tions fi)r instruction, on the productions of the 
press, became more and more apparent. 

It seems indeed probable, that the establish- 
ment of the parochial schools produced efi^ects 
on the rural muse of Scotland also, which have 
not hitlieno been suspected, and which, though 
less splendid in their nature, are not however 
to be regarded as trivial, whether we consider 
the happiness or the morals of the peop^. 

There is some reason to believe, that, the 
oriijinal Inhabitants of the British isles possessed 
a peculiar and interesting species of music, 
which being banished from the plains by the 
successive invasions of the Saxons, Danes, and 
N<)nnans, whs preserved with the native race, 
in the wilds of Ireland and in the mountains of 
Scotland atid Wales. The Irish, the Scottish, 
and the Welsh music, differ indeed from each 
other, hut the difference may bo considered as 
In dialect only, and i)rob>il)ly produced by the 
influence of time, like the difl'ereat dialects of 
their common language. If this conjecture be 
true, the Scottish music must be more imme- 
diately of a Highland origin, and the Lowland 
tunes, though now of a character somewhat dis- 
tinct, must have descended from the mountains 
in remote ages. Whatever credit may be given 
to conjectures, evidently involved in great un- 
certainty, there can be no doubt that the Scot- 
tish peasantry have been long in possession of a 
number of songs and ballads composed in their 
native dialect, and sung to their native music. 
The subjects of these compositions were such as 
most interested the simple inhabitants, and in 
the succession of time varied probably as the 
condition of society varied. During the sepa- 
ration and the hostility of the two nations, these 
songs and ballads, as far as our imperfect docu- 
ments enable us to judge, were chiefly warlike ; 
such as the Iluntis of Cheviot, and the Battle 
of Harlaw. After the union of the two crowns, 
when a certain degree of peace and tranquillity 
took place, the rural muse of Scotland breathed 
in softer accents. " In the want of real evi- 
dence respecting the history of our songs," says 
Ramsay of Ochtertyre, " recourse may be had 
to conjecture. One would be disposed to think, 
that the most beautiful of the Scottish tunes 
were clothed with new words after the union 
of the crowns. The inhabitants of the bonier* 
who had formerly been warriors from choice, 
and husbandmen from necessity, either quitted 
the country, or were transformed into real shep- 



6(5 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



herds, easy in ttelr c.rcumstances, and satisfied | 
with their lot. Some sparks of that spirit of 
chivalry for which they are celebrated by Frois- 
fcart, remained sufficient to inspire elevation of 
sentiment and gallantry towards the fair sex. 
The familiarity and kindness which had long 
subsisted between the gentry and the peasantry, 
could not all at once be obliterated, and this 
connexion tended to sweeten rural life. In this 
state of innocence, ease, and tranquillity of 
mind, the love of poetry and music would still 
maintain its ground, though it would naturally 
assume a form congenial to the more peaceful 
state of society. The minstrels, whose metrical 
tales used once to rouse the borderers like the 
trumpet's sound, had been, by an order of the 
Legislature (1579), classed with rogues and va- 
gabonds, and attempted to be suppressed. Knox 
and his disciples influenced the Scottish paidia- 
merit, but contended in vain with her rural 
muse. Amidst our Arcadian vales, probably 
on the banks of the Tweed, or some of its tri- 
butary streams, one or more original geniuses 
may have arisen who were destined to give a 
tew turn to the taste of their countrymen. 
They would see that the events and pursuits 
which chequer private life were the proper sub- 
jects for popular poetry. Love, which had for- 
merly held a divided sway with glory and am- 
bition, became now the master-passion of the 
soul. To portray in lively and delicate colours, 
though with a hasty hand, the hopes and fears 
that agitate the breast of the love-sick swain, 
or forlorn maiden, afford ample scope to the 
rural poet. Love-songs, of which Tibullus 
himself would not have been ashamed, might 
be composed by an uneducated rustic with a 
slight tincture of letters ; or if in these songs 
the character of the rustic be sometimes assum- 
ed, the truth of character, and the language of 
nature, are preserved. With unaffected sim- 
plicity and tenderness, topics are urged, most 
likely to soften the heart of a cruel and coy 
mistress, or to regain a fickle lover. Even in 
such as are of a melancholy cast, a ray of hope 
breaks through, and dispels the deep and settled 
gloom which characterizes the sweetsst of the 
Highland luinags, or vocal airs. Nor are these 
songs all plaintive ; many of them are lively 
and humorous, and some appear to us coarse 
and indelicate. They seem, however, genuine 
descriptions of the manners of an energetic and 
sequestered people in their hours of mirth and 
festiv.ty, though in their portraits some objects 
are brought into open view, which more fasti- 
dious painters would have thrown into shade. 

" As those rural poets sung for amusement, 
n:t for gain, their effusions seldom exceeded a 
!ove-song, or a ballad of satire or humour, 
which, like the words of the elder minstrels, 
were seldom committed to writing, but trea- 
sured up in the memory of their friends and 
iteighbo irs. Neither known to the learned nor 
patronized by the great, these rustic bards lived 
and died in obscurity ; and by a strange fatality, 



their story, and even their very names hav« 
been forgotten. When proper models for pas- 
toral songs were produced, there would be ne 
want of imitators. To succeed in this specie* 
of composition, soundness of understatidmg anrf 
sensibility of heart were more requisite than 
flights of imagination or pomp of numbers. 
Great changes have certainly taken place in 
Scottish song- writing, though we cannot trace 
the steps of this change ; and few of the pieces 
admired in Queen Mary's time are now to be 
discovered in modern collections. It is possible, 
though not probable, that the music may have 
remained nearly the same, though the words to 
the tunes were entirely new-modelled." 

These conjectures are highly ingenious. It 
cannot, however, be presumed, that the state of 
ease and tranquillity described by Mr. Ramsay 
took place among the Scottish peasantry imme- 
diately on the union of the crowns, or indeed 
during the greater part of the seventeenth cen- 
tury. The Scottish nation, through all ranks, 
was deeply agitated by the civil wars, and the 
religious persecutions which succeeded each 
other in that disastrous period ; it was not till 
after the revolution in 1688, and the subsequent 
establishment of their beloved form of church 
government, that the peasantry of the Lowiandi 
enjoyed comparative repose ; and it is since that 
period that a great number of the most admired 
Scottish songs have been produced, though the 
tunes to which they are sung, are in general of 
much greater antiquity. It is not unreasonable 
to suppose, that the peace and security derived 
from the Revolution, and the Union, produced 
a favourable change on the rustic poetry of 
Scotland ; and it can scarcely be doubted, that 
the institution of parish schools in 1696, by 
which a certain degree of instruction was dif- 
fused universally among the peasantry, contri- 
buted to this happy effect. 

Soon after this appeared Allan Ramsay, the 
Scottish Theocritus. He was born on the high 
mountains that divide Clydesdale and Annan- 
dale, in a small hamlet by the banks of Gleugo- 
nar, a stream which descends into the Clyde. 
The ruins of this hamlet are still shown to the 
inquiring traveller. He was the son of a pea- 
sant, and probably received such instruction as 
his parish-school bestowed, and the poverty of 
his parents admitted. Ramsay mafle his ap- 
pearance in Edinburgh, in the beginning of the 
present century, in the humble character of an 
apprentice to a barber ; he was then fouiteen or 
fifteen years of age. By degrees he acquired 
notice for his social disposition, and his talent 
for the composition of verses in the Scottish 
idiom ; and, changing his profession for that of 
a bookseller, he became intimate v/ith many of 
the literary, as well as the gay and fashionable 
characters of his time. * Having published a 



* " He was. coeval with Joseph Mitchell, and hii 
club of sm/iU wits, who, about 17 9, published a very 
poor miscellany, to which Dr Young, tb** author of 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



87 



volume of poerns of his own in 1721, which 
was favourably received, he undertook to make 
a collection of ancient Scottish poems, under the 
title of the Ever- Green, and was afterwards 
■>ncouraged to present to the world a collection 
of Scottish songs. " From what sources he 
procured them," says Ramsay of Ochtertyre, 
*' whether from tradition or manuscript, is un- 
certain. As in the Ever- Green he made some 
ry.sh attempts to improve on the originals of his 
ancient poems, he probably used still greater 
freedom with the songs and ballads. The truth 
cannot, however, be known on this point, t 
manuscripts of the songs printed by him, more 
ancient than the present century, shall be pro- 
duced, or access be obtained to his own papers, 
if they are still in existence. To several tunes 
which either wanted words, or had words that 
were impioiier or imperfect, he or his friends 
adapted verses worthy of the melodies they ac- 
companied, worthy indeed of the golden age. 
These verses were perfectly intelligible to every 
rustic, yet justly admired by pei-sons of taste, 
who regarded them as the genuine offspring of 
the pastoral muse. In some respects Ramsay 
had advantages not possessed by poets writing 
in the Scottish dialect in our days. Songs in 
the dialect of Cumberland or Lancashire, could 
never be popular, because these dialects have 
never been spoken by persons of fashion. But 
till the middle of the present century, every 
Scotsman, from the peer to the peasant, spoke 
a truly Doric language. It is true the English 
moralibits and poets were by this time read by 
every person of condition, and considered as the 
standards for polite composition. But, as na- 
tional prejudices were still strong, the busy, the 
learned, the gay, and the fair continued to speak 
their native dialect, and that with an elegance 
and poignancy of which Scotsmen of the present 
day can have no just notion. I am old enough 
to have conversed with Mr. Spittal, of Leuchat, 
a scholar and a man of fashion, who survived 
all the members of the Union Parliament, in 
which he had a seat. His pronunciation and 
phraseology differed as much from the common 
dialect, as the language of St. James's from that 
of Thames Street. Had we retained a court 
and parliament of our own, the tongues of the 
two sister kingdoms would indeed have differed 
like the Castilian and Portuguese ; but each 
would have its own classics, not in a single 
branch, but in the whole circle of literature. 

" Ramsay associated with the men of wit 
and fashion of his day, and several of them at- 
tempted tf write poetry in his manner. Per- 
sons too idle or too dissipated to think of com- 
positions that required much exertion, succeeded 
very happily in making tender sonnets to fa- 
vourite tunes in compliment to their mistresses, 
and transforming themselves into impassioned 



shepherds, caught the language ov .ne characters 
they assumed. Thus, about the year 1731, 
Robert Crawfurd of Auchinames, wrote the 
modern song of Tweedside,* which has been 
so much admired. In 1743, Sir Gilbert Elliot, 
the first of our lawyers who both spoke and 
wrote English elegantly, composed, in the cha- 
racter of a love-sick swain, a beautiful song, 
beginning, My sheep I neglected, I lost my 
sheep-hook, on the marriage of his mistress, 
Miss Forbes, with Ronald Crawfurd. And 
about twelve years aftenvards, the sister of Sir 
Gilbert wrote the ancient words to the tune oi 
the Flowers of the Forest,f and supposed to al- 
lude to the battle of Flowden. In spite of the 
double rhyme, it is a sweet, and though in some 
parts allegorical, a natural expression of national 
sorrow. The more modern words to the same 
tune, beginning, I have seen the smiling of for^ 
tune beguiling, were written long before by Mrs. 
Cockburn, a woman of great wit, who outHved 
all the first group of literati of the present cen- 
tury, all of whom were very fond of her. I was 
delighted with her company, tiiough when I saw 
her, she was very old. Much did she know- 
that is now lost." 

In addition to these instances of Scottish 
songs, produced in the earlier part of the pre- 
sent century, may be mentioned the ballad ol 
Hardiknute, by Lady Wardlaw ; the ballad oi 
William and Margaret ; and the song entitled 
the Bilks of Invermay, by Mallet ; the love- 
song, beginning, For ever. Fortune, wilt thou 
prove, produced by the youthful muse of Thom- 
son ; and the exquisite pathetic ballad, the Braes 
of Yarrow, by Hamilton of Bangour. On the 
revival of letters in Scotland, suhsequent to the 
Union, a very general taste seems to have pre- 
vailed for the national songs and music. *' For 
many years," says Mr. Ramsay, *' the singing 
of songs was the great delight of the higher and 
middle order of the people, as well as of the 
peasantry ; and though a taste for Italian music 
has interfered with this amusement, it is still 
very prevalent. Between forty and fifty years 
ago, the common people were not only exceed- 
ingly fond of songs and ballads, but of metrical 
history. Often have I, in my cheerful morn oi 
youth, listened to them with delight, when 
reading or reciting the exploits of Wallace and 
Bruce against the Southrons. Lord Hailes 
was wont to call Blind Harry their Bible, he 
being their great favourite next the Scriptures. 
When, therefore, one in the vale of life felt th« 
first emotion of genius, he wanted not models 
sui generis. But though the seeds of poetry 
were scattered with a plentiful hand among the 
Scottish peasantry, the product was probably 
like that of pears and apples — of a thousand 
that sprung up, nine hundred and fifty are so 
bad as to set the teeth on edge ; forty-five ot 



ha Night Thoughts, prefixed a copy of verses." 
Extract of a letter f-om Mr Ramsay of Ochtertyr ; 
to the F<utur. 



* Beginning, What beauties does Flora disclose 
t Begi' ling, I have heard a kiting at ou/i ewes 
milk-.ns 



88 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



more are passable and useful ; and the rest of 
an exquisite flavour. Allau Ramsay and Barns 
are wildings of this last description. They had 
the example of the elder Scottish poets ; they 
were not without the aid of ^he best English 
writers ; and, what was of still more import- 
ance, they were no strangers to the book of na- 
ture, and to the book of God." 

From this general view, it is apparent that 
Allan Ramsay may be considered as in a great 
measure the reviver of the rural poetry of his 
country. His collection of ancient Scottish 
poems under the name of The Ever-green, his 
collection of Scottish songs, and his own poems, 
the principal of which is the Gentle Shepherd, 
have been universally read among the peasantry 
of his country, and have in some degree super- 
seded the adventures of Bruce and Wallace, as 
recorded by Barbour and Blind Harry. Burns 
was well acquainted with all of these. He had 
also before him the poems of Fergusson in the 
Scottish dialect, which have been produced in 
our own times, and of which it will be neces- 
sary to give a short account. 

Feigusson was born of parents who had it in 
their power to procure him a liberal education, 
a circumstance, however, which in Scotland, 
implies no very high rank in society. From a 
well written and apparently authentic account 
of his life, we learn that he spent six years at 
the schools of Edinburgh and Dundee, and se- 
veral years at the universities of Edinburgli and 
St. Andrew's. It appears that he was at one 
time destined for the Scottish church ; but as 
he advanced towards manhood, he renounced 
that intention, and at Edinburgli entered the 
office of an attorney. Fergusson had sensibility 
of mind, a warm and generous heart, and ta- 
lents for society, of the most attractive kind. 
To such a man no situation could be more dan- 
gerous than that in which he was placed. The 
excesses into which he was led, impaired his 
feeble constitution, and he sunk under them in 
the mouth of October, 1774., in his 23d or 24th 
year. Burns was not acquainted with the 
poems of this youthful genius when he himself 
began to write poetry ; and when he first saw 
them, he had renounced the muses. But while 
he resided in the town of Irvine, meeting with 
Fergusson s Scottish Poems, he informs us that 
he " strung his lyre anew with emulating vi- 
gour." Touched by the sympathy originating 
in kindred genius, and in' the forebodings of si- 
milar fortune, Burns regarded Fergusson with 
a partial and an affectionate admiration. Over 
his grave he erected a monument, as has al- 
ready been mentioned ; and his poems he has 
in several instances made the subjects of his 
imitation. 

From this aa ount of the Scottish poems 
known to Burns, those who are acquainted 
with them will see they are chiefly humorous 
or pathetic ; and under one or other of these 
■iescriptions most of his own poems will cla^^s. 
Let U3 comoare him with his predecessors un- 



der each of th.'se points of view, and close ova 

examination with a few general observations. 

It has frequently been observed, that Scot- 
land has produced, comparatively speaking, few 
writers who have excelled in humour. But thi» 
observation is true only when applied to those 
who have continued to reside in their own coun- 
try, and have confined themselves to composi- 
tion in pure English ; and in these circum- 
stances it admits of an easy explanation. The i 
Scottish poets, who have written in the dialect 
of Scotland, havt been at all times remarkable 
for dwelling on subjects of humour, in which 
indeed some of them have excelled. It would 
be easy to show, that the dialect of Scotland 
having become j)rovincial, is now scarcely suit- 
ed to the more elevated kinds of poetry. If we 
may believe that the poem of Christis Kirk oj 
the Grene was written by James the First of 
Scotland, this accomplished monarch, who had 
received an English education under Henry the 
Fourth, and who bore arms under his gallant 
successor, gave the model on which the greater 
part of the humorous productions of the rustic 
muse of Scotland had been formed. Christis 
Kirk of the Grene was leprinted by Ramsay, 
somewhat modernized in the orthography, and 
two cantos were added by him, in which he at- 
tempts to carry on the design. Hence the poem 
of King James is usually printed in Ramsay 'a 
works. The royal bard describes, in the first 
canto, a rustic dance, and afterwards a conten- 
tion in archery, ending in an aftiay. Ramsay 
relates the restoration of concoi-d, and the re- 
newal of the rural sports with the humours of a 
country wedding. Though each of the poets 
describes the manners of his respective age, yet 
in the whole piece there is a very sufficient uni- 
formity ; a striking proof of the identity of cha- 
racter in the Scottish peasantry at the two pe- 
riods, distant from each other three hundred 
years. It is an honourable distinction to this 
body of men, that their character and manners, 
very little embellished, have been found to be 
susceptible of an amusing and interesting spe- 
cies of poetry ; and it must appear not a little 
curious, that the single nation of modern Eu- 
rope which possesses an original poetry, should 
have received the model, followed by their rus- 
tic bards, from the monarch on the throne. 

The two additional cantos to Christis Kirk 
of the Grene, written by Ramsay, though ob- 
jectionable in point of delicacy, are among the 
happiest of his productions. Kis chief excel- 
lence indeed, lay in the description of rural cha- 
racters, incidents, and scenery ; for he did not 
possess any very high powers either of imagind- 
tion or of understanding. He was well ac- 
quainted with the peasantry of Scotland, their 
lives and opinions. The subject was in a great 
measure new ; his talents were equal to the 
subject, and he has shown that it may ie hap- 
pily adapted to pastoral poetry. In his Gentle 
Shepherd, the characters are delineations from 
nature, the descriptive parts are in the genuine 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



Btyle of beautiful simplicity, the passions and 
affections of rural life are finely portrayed, and 
the heart is pleasingly interested in the happi- 
ness that is bestowed on innocence and virtue. 
Throughout the whole there is an air of reality 
^'hich the most carele-s reader cannot but per- 
ceive ; aad in fact no poem ever perhaps ac- 
quired so high a reputation, in which truth re- 
ceived so little embtllishment from the imagina- 
tion. In his pastoral songs, and his rural ta'es, 
Ramsay appears to less advantage, indeed, but 
Uill with considerable attraction. The story of 
t\e Monk und the Miller's Wi£e, though some- 
what licentious, may rank with the happiest 
productions of Prior or La Fontaine. But when 
he attempts subjects from higher life, and aims 
at pure English composition, he is feeble and 
uninteresting, and seldom even reaches medio- 
crity. Neither are his familiar epistles and 
elegies in the Scotti.sh dialect entitled to much 
approbation. Though Fergusson had higher 
powers of imagination than Ramsay, his genius 
was not of the highest order ; nor did his learn- 
ing, which was consideiable, improve his ge- 
nius. His poems written in pure English, in 
which he often follows classical models, though 
superior to the English poems of Ramsay, sel- 
dom rise above mediocrity ; but in those com- 
posed in the Scottish dialect he is often very 
successful. He was, in general, however, less 
happy than Ramsay in the subjects of his muse 
As he spent the greater part of his life in Edin- 
burgh, and wrote for his amusement in the in- 
tervals of business or dissipation, his Scottish 
poems are chiefly founded on the incidents of a 
town life, which, though they are not suscepti- 
ble of humour, do not admit of those delinea- 
tions of scenery and manners, which vivify the 
rural poetry of Ramsay, and which so agreeably 
amuse the fancy and interest the heart. The 
town eclogues of Fergusson, if we may so deno- 
minate them, ai'e however faithful to nature, 
and often distinguished by a very happy vein of 
humour. His poems entitled T/ie JJaft Days, 
The King's Birth-day in Edinburgh, JLeith 
Races, and The Hallow Fair, will justify this 
character. In these, particularly in the last, he 
imitated Christis Kirk of the Grene, as Ram- 
say had done before him. His Address to the 
Tron-Mrk Bell is an exquisite piece of humour, 
which Burns has scarcely excelled. In appre- 
ciating the genius of Fergusson, it ought to be 
recollected, that his poems are the careless effu- 
sions of an irregular though amiable young man, 
who wrote for the periodical papers of the day, 
and who died in early youth. Had his life been 
prolonged under happier circumstances of for- 
tune, he would probably have risen to much 
higher reputation. He might have excelled in 
rural poetry, for though his professed pastorals 
on the established Sicilian model, are stale and 
tihinteresxmg, The Farmer's Ingle,* which 



• The farmer's fire-side. 



may be considered as a Scottish pastoral, is tbf. 
happiest cf all his productions, and certainly 
was the archetj-pe of the Colter's Saturdajf 
Night. Fergusson, and more especially Burns, 
have shown, that the character and manners of 
the })easantry of Scotland, of the present times, 
are as well adapted to poetry, as in the days of 
Ramsay, or of the author of Cliriatis Kirk of 
the Grene. 

The humour of Burns is of a richer vein than 
that of Ramsay or Fergusson, both of whom, a% 
he himself informs us, he had " frequently in hi» 
eye, but rather with a view to kindle at their 
flame, than to servile im.itation." His descrip- 
tive powers, whether the objects on which they 
are employed be comic or serious, animate, or 
inanimate, are of the highest order. — A supe- 
riority of this kind is essential to every species 
of poetical excellence. In one of his earlier 
poems his plan seems to be to inculcate a lesson 
of contentment on the lower classes of society, 
by showing that their superiors are neither 
much better nor happier than themselves ; and 
this he chooses to execute in the form of a dia- 
logue between two dogs. He introduces this 
dialogue by an account of the persons and cha- 
racters of the speakers. The first, whom he 
has named Ccesar, is a dog of condition : — 

" His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar, 
Showed him the gentleman and scholar." 

High-bred though he is, he is however full of 
condescension : 

" At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie. 
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, 
An' stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him,* 

The other, Luath, is a " plougman's- collie," 
but a cur of a good heart and a sound under- 
standing. 

*' His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 
Aye gat him friends in ilka place ; 
His breast was white, his towsie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, 
Hung o'er his hurdles wi' a swirl." 

Never were twa dogs so exquisitely delineat- 
ed. Their gambols, before they sit down to 
moralize, are described with an equal degree of 
happiness ; and through the whole dialogue, 
the character, as well as the different condition 
of the two speakers, is kept in view. The 
speech of Luath, in which he enumerates the 
comforts of the poor, gives the following ac- 
count of their merriment on the first day of the 
year : 

" That merry day the year begins. 
They bar the door on frosty winds. 



90 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



The liappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
And fheds a heari-inspirin' steam ; 
The ^vntin pipe, and sneeshin' mill, 
Are handed round wi' right guid-will ; 
The canty auld folks crack in' crouse, 
The young anes rantin' thro' the house — 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hue barkit wi'' them." 

Of all th* animals who have moralized on hu- 
man aflfairs since the days of J^sop, the dog 
seems best entitled to this privilege, as well from 
his superior sagacity, as from his being, more 
than any other, the friend and associate of man. 
The dogs of Burns, excepting in their talent for 
moralizing, are downright dogs. The " twa 
dogs" are constantly kept before our eyes, and 
the contrast between their form and character 
as dogs, and the sagacity of their conversation, 
heightens the humour, and deepens the impres- 
sion of the poet's satire. Though in this poem 
the chief excellence may be considered as hu- 
mour, yet great talents are displayed in its com- 
position ; the happiest powers of description 
and the deepest insight into the human heart. 
It is seldom, however, that the humour of Burns 
appears in so simple a form. The liveliness of 
his sensibility frequently impels him to intro- 
duce into subjects of humour, emotions of ten- 
derness or of pity ; and, where occasion admits, 
he is sometimes' carried on to exert the higher 
powers of imagination. In such instances he 
leaves the society of Ramsay and of Fergusson, 
and associates himself with the masters of Eng- 
lish poetry, whose language he frequently as- 
sumes. 

Of the union of tenderness and humour, ex- 
amples may be found in The Death and Dying 
Words of poor Mailie, in The auld Farmer's 
New- Ytar's Morning Salutation to his Mare 
Maggi-e, and in many other of his poems. The 
praise of whisky is a favourite subject with 
Burns. To this he dedicates his poem of 
Scotch Drink. After mentioning its cheering 
influence in a variety of situations, he describes, 
with singular liveliness and power of fancy, its 
stimulating effects on the blacksmith workmg 
at his forge : 

' Nae mercy, then, for aim or steel ; 
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel. 
Brings hard owre-hip, wi' sturdy wheel, 

The strong fore-hammer, 
Till block an' studdie ring and reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour.^' 



Again, however, he sinks into humour, and 
toncludes the poem with the following most 
y^^nghable, but most irreverent apostrophe : 

« Scotland, my auld, respected mither ! 
Though whyles yc moistify your leather, 
'Till where you sit, on craps o' heather, 
Ye tine your dam ; 



Freedom and Whisky gang thegkher, 
Tak aff your dram!" 

Of this union of humour, with the highe. 
powers of imagination, instances may be found 
in the poem entitled Death and Dr. Hornbook, 
and in almost every stanza of the Address Ui 
the Deil, one of the happiest of his productions. 
After reproaching this terrible being with all 
his "doings" and misdeeds, in the course of 
which he passes through a series of Scottish 
superstitions, and rises at times into a higV 
strain of poetry ; he concludes this address, de- 
livered in a tone of great familiarity, not alto- 
gether unmixed with apprehension, in the fol- 
lowing words : 

" But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben ' 
O wad ye tak a thought an* men" ■ 
Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — 

Still ha'e a stake — 
I'm wae to think upo' yon den 

Ev'n for your sake ! 

Humour and tenderness are here so happil"/ 
intermixed, that it is impossible to say whict 
preponderates. 

Fergusson wrote a dialogue between the 
Causeway -AnA the Plainstones,* of Edinburgh. 
This probably suggested to Burns his dialogue 
between the Old and New Bridge over the river 
Ayr. The nature of such subjects requires that 
they shall be treated humorously, and Fergusson 
has attempted nothing beyond this. Though 
the Causeway and the Plainstones talk to- 
gether, no attempt is made to personify the 
speakers. 

In the dialogue between the Brigs of Ayr, 
the poet, " press'd by care," or " inspired by 
whim," had left his bed in the town of Ayr, 
and wandered out alone in the darkness and so- 
litude of a winter night, to the mouth of the 
river, where the stillness was interrupted only 
by the rushing sound of the influx of the tide. 
It was after midnight. The Dungeon-clock 
had struck two, and the sound had been re- 
peated by Wallace- Tower. All else was hushed. 
The moon shone brightly, and 

" The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam. 
Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream." 

In this situation, the listening bard hears the 
" clanging sugh" of wings moving through the 
air, and speedily he perceives two beings, reared, 
the one on the Old, the other on the New Bridge, 
whose form and attire he describes, and whose 
conversation with each other he rehearses. 
These genii enter into a comparison of the re- 
spective edifices over which they preside, and af- 
terwards, as is usual between the old and young, 
compare modern characters and manners with 
those of past times. They differ, as may be ex- 



ide-pavement. 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



9i 



pected, and tadnt and scold each other in broad 
Scotch. This conversation, which is certainly 
humorous, may be considered as a proper busi- 
ness of the poem. As the debate runs high, aud 
threatens serious consequences, all at once it is 
interrupted by a new scene of wonders : 



-" all before their sight 



A fairy train appeared in order bright 
Adown the glittering stream they featly danced ; 
Bright to the moon their various dresses glanced ; 
They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet ; 
While arts of minstrelsy among them rung, 
And soul-ennobled Bards heroic ditties sung." 



* The Genius of the Stream in front appears, 
A venerable chief, advanced in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound." 

Next follow a number of other allegorical be- 
ings, among v^hora are the four seasons. Rural 
Joy, Plenty, Hospitality, and Courage. 

" Benevolence, with mild benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair : 
Learning and Worth in equal measures trode, 
From simple Catniie, their long-loved abode : 
Last, white-robed Peace, crown'd with a hazel 

wreath, 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instrument of Death ; 
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kin- 

dhng wrath." 

This poem, irregular and imperfect as it is, 
displays various and powerful talents, and may 
serve to illustrate the<:enius of Burns. In par- 
ticular, it affords a striking instance of his being 
carried beyond his original purpose by the pow- 
ers of imagination. 

In Fergusson's poem, the Plainstnnes and 
Causeway contrast the characters of the differ- 
ent persons who walked upon them. Burns 
probably conceived, that, by a dialogue between 
the Old and New Bridge, he might form a hu- 
morous contrast between ancient aud modern 
manners in the town of Ayr. Such a dialogue 
could only be supposed to pass in the stillness of 
night ; and this led our poet into a description 
of a midnight scene, which excited in a high 
degree the powers of his imagination. During 
the whole dialogue the scenery is present to his 
fancy, and at length it suggests to him a fairy 
dance of aerial beings, under the beams of the 
moon, by which the wrath of the Genii of the 
Brigs of Ayr is appeased. 

Incongruous as the different parts of this poem 
are, it is not an incongruity that displeases ; and 
we have only to regret that the poet did not be- 
stow a little pains in making the figures more 
correct, and in smoothing the versification. 

The epistles of Burns, in which may be in- 



cluded his Dedication to G. H. Esc^ discover, 
like his other writings, the powers of a superior 
understanding. They display deep insight into 
human nature, a gay and happy strain of reflec- 
tion, great independence of sentiment, and ge- 
nerosity of heart. The /fa/Zojyeera of Burns ia 
free from every objection. It is interesting not 
merely from its humorous description of manners, 
but as it records the spells and charms used on 
the celebration of a festival, now, even in Scot- 
land, falling into neglect, but which was once 
observed over the greater part of Britain and 
Ireland. These charms are supposed to afford 
an insight into futurity, especially on the sub- 
ject of marriage, the most interesting event of 
rural life. In the Halloween, a female, in per- 
forming one of the spells, has occasion to go out 
by moonlight to dip her shift-sleeve into a stream 
running towards the South. It was not ne- 
cessary for Burns to give a description of this 
stream. But it was the character of his ardent 
mind to pour forth not merely what the occasion 
required, but what it admitted ; and the temp- 
tation to describe so beautiful a natural object 
by moonlight, was not to be resisted — 

" Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, 
As through the glen it wimpl't ; 
Whyles round the rocky scar it strays ; 

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; 
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickermg d.uicing dazzle ; 
Whyles cookit underneath the braes, 
Beneath the spreading hazel, 

LTnseen that night. 

Those who understand the Scottish dialect 
will allow this to be one of the finest instances 
of description which the records of poetry afford. 

In pastoral, or, to speak more correctly, in 
rural poetry of a serious nature. Burns excelled 
equally as in that of a humorous kind, and, using 
less of the Scottish dialect in his serious poems, 
he becomes more generally intelligible. It is dif- 
ficult to decide whether the Address to a Mouse 
whose nest was turned up with the plough, should 
be considered as serious or comic. Be this as 
it may, the poem is one of the happiest and 
most finished of his productions. If we smile 
at the " bickering brattle" of this little flying 
animal, it is a smile of tenderness and pity. 
The descriptive part is admirable : the moral re- 
flections beautiful, and arising directly out of the 
occasion ; and in the conclusion there is a deep 
melancholy, a sentiment of doubt and dread, 
that arises to the sublime. The Address to a 
Mountain Daisy, turned down with the plough, 
is a poem of the same nature, though somewhat 
inferior in point of originality, as well as in the 
interest produced. To extract out of incidents 
so common, and seemingly so trivial as these^ 
so tine a traiii of sentiment and imagery, is the 
surest proof, as well as the most i)rilliAnt triumph^ 
of original genius. The Vision, in two cantos, 
from which a beautiful extract is taken by Mr 



92 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



Mackenzie^ "in the 97tli number of tlie Loiinger, 
is a poem of great and various excellence. The 
opening, in which the poet describes his own 
state of mind, retiring in the evening, wearied, 
from the labours of the day, to moralize on his 
conduct and prospects, is truly interesting. The 
chamber, if we may so term it, in which he sits 
down to muse, is an exqui^^ite painting : — 

" There, lanely, by the ingle cheek, 
I sat and eyed the spewing reek, 
That fill'd wi' hoast-provoking smeek 
That auld clay biggin j 
An* heard the restless rattons squeak 
About the riggiu. " 

To reconcile to our imagination the jatrance 
of an aerial being into a mansion of this kind, 
required the powers of Burns — he, however, suc- 
ceeds. Coila enters, and her countenance, atti- 
tude, and dress, unlike those of other spiritual 
beings, are distinctly portrayed. To the painting 
on her mantle, on which is depicted the most 
striking scenery, as well as the most distinguished 
characters, of his native country, some exceptions 
may be made. The mantle of Coila, like the cup 
of Thyrsis,* and the shield of Achilles, is too 
much crowded with figures, and some of the ob- 
jects represented upon it are scarcely admissible, 
according to the principles of design. The ge- 
nerous temperament of Burns led him into these 
exuberances. In his second edition he enlarged 
the number of figures originally introduced, that 
he might include objects to which he was at- 
tached by sentiments of affection, gratitude, or 
patriotism. The second Duan, or canto of this 
poem, in which Coila describes her own nature 
and occupations, particularly her superintendence 
of his infant eenius, and in which, she reconciles 
him to the cliaracter of a bard, is an elevated and 
solemn strain of poetry, ranking in all respects, 
excepting the harmony of numbers, with the 
higher productions of the English muse. The 
concluding stanza, compared with that already 
quoted, will show to what a height Burns rises 
in this poem, from the point at which he set 
out ; — 

•* And wear thou this — she solemn said. 
And bound the holly round my head ; 
The polish'd leaves, and berries red, 

Did rustling play ; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 

In light away." 

In various poems Burns has exhibited the pic- 
ture of g, mind under the deep impressions of 
real sorrow. The Lament^ the Ode to Ruin, 
Despondency, and Winter, a Dirge, are of this 
character. In the first of these poems the eighth 
stanza, which describes a sleepless night from 
anguish of mind, is particularly striking. Burns 
often indulge i in those melancholy views of the 



* See the first Idyllium of Theocritus. 



nature and condition of man, which are so con« 
genial to the temperament of sensibility. Th« 
poem entitled Man was made to Mourn, aifords 
an instance of this kind, and The Wnter Night 
is of the same description. The las ^ is highly 
characteristic, both of the temper of mind, and 
of the condition of Burns. It begins with a 
description of a dreadful storm on a night in 
winter. The poet represents himself as lying in 
bed, and listening to its howling. In this situ- 
ation, he naturally turns his thoughts to the 
ourie * Cattle, and the silly -^ Sheep, exposed to 
all the violence of the tempest. Having lament- 
ed their fate, he proceeds in the following : — 

" Ilk happing bird — wee helpless thing ! 
That in the merry moriths o' spring, 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee? 
Wharc wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, 

An' close thy e'e ? 

Other reflections of the same nature occur to 
his mind ; and as the midnight moon, " muf- 
fled with clouds," casts her dreary light on his 
window, thoughts of a darker and more me- 
lancholy nature crowd upon him. In this state 
of mind, he hears a voice pouring through the 
gloom, a solemn and plaintive strain of reflec- 
tion. The mourner compares the fury of the 
elements with that of man to his brotht r man, 
and finds the former light in the balance. 

" See stern Oppression's iron grip, 

Or mad Ambition's gory hand, 
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip. 

Woe, want, and murder, o'er the land." 

He pursues this train of reflection through a 
variety of particulars, in the course of which he 
introduces the following animated apostrophe : — 

" O ye ! who sunk in beds of down, 

Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 

Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate. 

Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 
Ill-satisfy'd keen Nature's clam'rous call, 

Stretch'd on his straw be lays him down to 
sleep. 
While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wail, 

Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap." 

The strain of sentiment which runs through 
this poem is noble, though the execution is un- 
equal, and the versification is defective. 

Among the serious poems of Burns, The 
Cotter's Saturday Night is perhaps entitled to 
the first rank. The Farmer's Ingle of Vergui 
son evidently suggested the plan of this poen>, 
as has been already mentioned ; but after the 
plan was formed. Burns trusted entirely to his* 



* Ourie, out-lying. Ourie Cattle, Cattle that are un. 
housed all winter. 

t SiUy is in this, as in otner places, a term of com 
passion and endearment. 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



9S 



awn powers for the execution. Fergusson's 
poem is certainly very beautiful. It has all the 
charms which depend on rural characters and 
manners happily portrayed, and exhibited under 
circumstances highly grateful to the imagination. 
The Farmer's Ingle begins with describing the 
return of evening. The toils of the day are over, 
and the farmer retires to his comfortable fire- 
side. The reception which he and his men-ser- 
vants receive from the careful house-wife, is 
pleasingly described. After their supper is over, 
they begin to talk on the rural events of the day. 

" 'Bout kirk and market eke their tales gae on, 
How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his bride ; 

And there how Marion for a bastard son. 
Upon the cutty-i^tool was forced to ride, 

The waefu* scauld d' our Mess John to bide. 

The " Guidame" is next introduced as forming 
a circle round the fire, in the midst of her grand- 
children, and while she spins from the rock, 
and the spindle plays on her " russet lap," she 
is relating to the young ones tales of witches and 
ghosts. The poet exclaims, 

" O mock na this my friends ! but rather mourn, 
Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear, 

Wi' eild oar idle fancies a' return, 

And dim our dolef*:' days wi' bairnly fear ; 

The mind's aye cradVd when the ^raye is near." 

In the meantime the farmer, wearied with the 
fatigues of the day, stretches himself at length 
on the settle, a sort of rustic couch, which ex- 
tends on one side of the fire, and the cat and 
house-dog leap upon it to receive his caresses. 
Here, resting at his ease, he gives his directions 
to his men-servants for the succeeding day. 
The house-wife follows his example, and gives 
her orders to the maidens. By degrees the oil 
in the cruise begins to fail ; the fire runs low ; 
sleep steals on his rustic group ; and they move 
off to enjoy their peaceful slumbers. The poet 
concludes by bestowing his blessing on the 
" husbandman and all his tribe." 

This is an original and truly interesting pas- 
toral. It possesses every thing required in this 
species of composition. We might have perhaps 
said, every thing that it admits, had not Burns 
written his Cotter's Saturday Night. 

The cottager returning from his labours, has 
no servants to accompany him, to partake of his 
fare, or to receive his instructions. The circle 
which I'.e joins, is composed of his wife and chil- 
dren only ; and if it admits of less variety, it af- 
fords an opportunity for representing scenes that 
more strongly interest the affections. The 
younger children running to meet him, and 
slambering round his knee ; the elder, returning 
from their weekly labours with the neighbouring 
farmers, dutifully depositing their little gains 
with their parents, and receiving theii father's 
Dlessing and instructions ; the incidents of the 
courtship of Jenny, their eldest daughcei , " wo- 



man grown," are circumstances of the most in- | 
teresting kind, which are most happily delineat- i 
ed ; and after their frugal supper, the represen- > 
tatian of these humbler cottagers forming a wider J 
circle round their hfcarth, and uniting in the I 
worship of God, is a picture the most deeply af- ; 
fecting of any which the rural muse has ever ' 
presented to the view. Burns was admirably ; 
adapted to this delineation. Like all men of | 
genius he was of the temperament of devotion, \ 
and the powers of memory co-operated in this 
instance with the sensibility of his heart, and i 
the fervour of his imagination. The Cotter's j 
Saturday Night is tender and moral, it is so- i 
lemn and devotional, and rises at length in a I 
strain of grandeur and sublimity, which modern I 
poetry has not surpassed. The noble sentimentsr ! 
of patriotism with which it concludes, corres- ! 
pond with the rest of the poem. In no age or I 
country have the pastoral muses breathed such 
elevitied accents, if the Messiah of Pope be ex- 
cepted, which is indeed a pastoral in form only. 
It is to be regretted that Burns did not employ i 
his genius on other subjects of the same nature, j 
which the manners and customs of the Scottish i 
peasantry would have amply supplied. Such 
poetry is not to be estimated by the degree of 
pleasure which it bestows ; it sinks deeply into 
the heart, and is calculated, far beyond any other 
human means, for giving permanence to the 
scenes and the characters it so exquisitely de- 
scribes. 

Before we conclude, it will be proper to of- 
fer a few observations on the lyric productions 
of Burns. His compositions of this kind are 
chiefly songs, generally in the Scottish dialect, 
and always after the model of the Scottish songs, 
on the general character and moral influence of 
which, some observations have already been of- 
fered. We may hazard a few more particular 
remarks. 

Of the historic or heroic ballads of Scotland 
it is unnecessary to speak. Burns has no where 
imitated them, a circumstance to be regretted, 
since in this species of composition, from its ad- 
mitting the more terrible, as well as the softer 
graces of poetry, he was eminently qualified to 
have excelled. The Scottish songs which ser- 
ved as a model to Burns, are almost without 
exception pastoral, or rather rural. Such of 
them as are comic, frequently treat of a rustic 
courtship, or a country wedding ; or they de- 
scribe the difi'erences of opinion which arise in 
married life. Burns has imitated this species, 
and surpassed his models. The song beginning 
" Husband, husband, cease your strife," may be 
cited in support of this observation.* His other 



* The dialogues between husbands and their wives 
which form the subjects of the Scottish songs, are al- 
most all ludicrous and satirical, and in these contests 
the lady is generally victorious. From the collections 
of Mr. Pinkerton, we find that the comic muse of Scot- 
land delighted in such representations from very early 
times, in her rude dramatic ctlbrts, as well as in he< 
rustic songs. 



94 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



comic songs are of equal merit. In the rural 
BongB of Scotland, whether humorous or ten- 
der, the sentiments are given to particular cha- 
racters, and very generally, the incidents are 
referred to particular scenery. This last cir- 
cumstance may be considered as a distinguish- 
ing feature of the Scottish songs, and on it a 
considerable part of their attraction depends. 
On all occasions the sentiments, of whatever 
natui'e, are dolivered in the character of the per- 
son principaJy interested. If love be described, 
it is not as it is observed, but as it is felt ; and 
the passion is delineated under a particular as- 
pect. Neither is it the fiercer impulses of de- 
sire that are expressed, as in the celebrated ode 
of Sappho, the model of so many modern songs ; 
bi.t those gentler emotions of tenderness and af- 
fection, which do not entirely absorb the lover ; 
but permit him to associate his emotions with 
the charms of external nature, and breathe the 
accents of purity and innocence, as well as of 
love. In these respects the love- songs of Scot- 
land are honourably distinguished from the 
most admired classical compositions of the same 
kind ; and by such associations, a variety as 
well as liveliness, is given to the representation 
of this passion, which are not to be found in 
the poetry of Greece or Rome, or perhaps of 
any other nation. Many of the love-songs of 
Scotland describe scenes of rural courtship ; 
many may be considered as invocations from 
lovers to their mistresses. On such occasions 
a degree of interest and realily is given to the 
sentiment, by the spot destined to these happy 
interviews being particularized. The lovers 
perhaps meet at the Bush ahoon Traquair, or 
on the Banks of Ettrick ; the nymphs are in- 
voked to wander among the wilds of RosUn or 
ihe Woods of Invcrmay. Nor is the spot mere- 
ly pointed out ; the scenery is often described 
as well as the character, so as to represent a 
complete picture to the fancy. * Thus the 



maxim of Horace, ut pictura poesis, is faithfuU 
ly observed by these rustic bards, who are guid- 
ed by the same impulse of nature and sensibility 
which influenced the father of epic poetry, on 
whose examjjle the precept of the Roman poet 
was perhaps founded. By this means the ima- 
gination is employed to interest the feelings. 
When we do not conceive distinctly, we do not 
sympathize deeply in any human affection ; and 
we conceive nothing in the abstract. Abstrac- 
tion, so useful in morals, and so essential in 
science, must be abandoned when the heart is 
to be subdued by the powers of poetry or of 
eloquence. The bards of a ruder condition of 
society paint individual objects ; and hence, 
among other causes, the easy access they obtain 
to the heart. Generalization is the voice of 
poets, whose learning overpowers their genius ; 
of })oets of a refined and scientific age. 

The dramatic style which prevails so much 
in the Scottish songs, whue it contributes great- 
ly to the interest they excite, also shows that 
they have originated among a people in the ear- 
lier stages of society. Where this form of com- 
position appears in songs of a modern date, it 
indicates that they have been written after the 
ancient model.* 

The Scottish songs are of very unequal poe 
tical merit, and this inequality often extends to 
the different parts of the same song. Those that 
are humorous, or characteristic of manners, 
have in general the merit of copying nature ; 
those that are serious are tender and often 
sweetly interesting, but seldom exhibit high 
powers of imagination, which indeed do not 



* One or two examples may illustrate this observa- 
tion. A Scottish song, written about a hundred years 
ago, begins thus:— 

" On Ettrick Banks, on a summer's night 
At gloaming, when the sheep drove hame 
I met my lassie, braw and tight, 
Come wading barefoot a' her lane. 

My heart grew light, I ran, I flang 

My arms about her lily.neck. 
And kissed and clasped there fu' lang— 

My words they were na mony feck." 

The lover, who is a Highlander, goes on to relate 
the language he employed with his Lowland maid to 
win her heart, and to persuade her to fly with him to 
the Highland hills, there to share his fortune. The 
sentiments are in themselves beautiful. But we feel 
them with double force, while we conceive Uiat tliey 
were addressed by a lover to his mistress, whom he 
met all alone on a summer's evening, by the banks of 
a beautiful stream, which some of us have actually 
seen, and which all of us can paint to our imagination. 
Let us take another example. It is now a nymph that 
speaks. Here how she expresses herself— 

•• How blythe each morn was I to see 
My swain come o'er thp hill ! 



He skipt the bum, and flew to me, 
I met him with good will." 

Here is another picture drawn by the pencil of Na- 
ture. We see a shepherdess standing by the side of a 
brook, watching her lover, as he descends the opposite 
hill. He bounds lightly along; he approaches nearer 
and nearer; he leaps the brook, and flies into her 
arms. In the recollection of these circumstances, the 
surrounding scenery becomes endeared to the fair 
mourner, and she bursts into the following exclama- 
tion :— 

'• O the broom, the bonnie bonnie broom. 
The broom of the Cowden-knowes ! 
I wish I were with my dear swain. 
With his pipe and his ewes;" 

Thus the individual spot of this happy interview is 
pointed out, and the picture is completed. 

* Tliat the dramatic form of writing characterizes 
productions of an early, or what amounts to the same, 
of a rude stage of society, may be illustrated by a re- 
ference to the most ancient compositions that we know 
of, the Hebrew scriptures, and the v;ritings of Homer. 
The form of dialogue is adopted in the old Scottish 
ballads, even in narration, whenever the situations de- 
scribed become interesting. This sometimes prcjduces 
a very striking effect, of which an instance may be 
given from the ballad of Edom o' Gordon, a composi- 
tion apparently of the sixteenth century. The story 
of the ballad is shortly this:— The Castle of Rhodes 
in the absence of its lord, is attacked by the robber 
Edom Gordon. The lady stands on her defence, beats 
off the assailants, and wounds Gordon, who in his rage 
orders the castle to be set on fire. That his orders are 
carried into effect, we learn from the expostulation ot 
the lady, who is represented as standing on the battle- 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



95 



easily find a place in this species of composition. 
The alliance of the words of the Scottish songs 
with the music has in some instances given to 
the former a popularity, which otherwise they 
would never have obtained. 

The association of the words and the music 
of these songs with the more beautiful parts of 
the scenery of Scotland, contributes to the same 
effect. It has given them not merely popularity, 
but permanence ; it has imparted to the works 
of man some portion of the durability of the 
works of nature. If, from our imperfect expe- 
rience of the past, we may judge with any con- 
fidence respecting the future, songs of this de- 
scription are of all others the least likely to die. 
In the changes of language they may no doubt 
suffer change ; but the associated strain of sen- 
timent and of music will perhaps survive, while 
the clear stream sweeps down the vale of Yar- 
row, or the yellow broom waves on the Cowden- 
Knowes. 

The first attempts of Burns in song-writing 
were not very successful. His habitual inatten- 
tion to the exactness of rhymes, and to the har- 
mony of numbers, arising probably from the 
models on which his versification was formed, 
were faults likely to appear to more advantage 
ill this species of composition, than in any 
other ; and we may also remark, that the 
strength of his imagination, and the exuberance 
of his sensibility, were with difficulty restrained 
within the limits of gentleness, delicacy and 
tenderness, which seem to be assigned to the 
love-songs of his nation. Burns was better 
adapted by nature for following in such compo- 
sitions the model of the Grecian than of the 
Scottish muse. By study and practice he how- 
ever surmounted aU these obstacles. In his 
earlier songs there is some ruggedness ; but this 
gradually disappears in his successive efforts ; 
and some of his later compositions of this kind 
may be compared, in polished delicacy, with the 
finest songs in our language, while in the elo- 
quence of sensibility they surpass them alk 

The songs of Burns, like the models he fol- 
lowed and excelled, are often dramatic, and for 
the greater part amatory ; and the beauties of 
rural nature are every where associated with 
the passions and emotions of the mind. DIs- 



ments and remonstrating on- this barbarity. She is in- 
terrupted — 

" O then bespake her little son. 

Sate on his nourice knee ; 
Says ' mither dear, gi' owre this house. 

For the reek it smithers me.' 
" I wad gie a' my gowd, ray childe, 

Sae wad I a' my fee. 
For ae blast o' the westlin wind, 

To blaw the reek frae thee." 

The circumstantiality of the Scottish love-songs, 
nnd the dramatic form which prevails so generally in 
them, probably arises from their being the descendants 
and successors of the ancient ballads. In the beautiful 
mcaern song of Mary of Castle-Cary, the dramatic 
form has a very happy effect The same may be said 
of Donald and Flora, and Come under my Plaidie, by 
fhe same author, Mr. MacnieL 



daining to copy the works of others, he has not, 
like some poets of great name, admitted into his 
descriptions exotic imagery. The landscapes 
he has painted, and the objects with which they 
are embellished, are, in every single instance, 
such as are to be found in his own country. Ic 
a mountainous region, especially when it is 
comparatively rude and naked, the most beauti- 
ful scenery will always be found in the valleys, 
and on the banks of the wooded streams. Such 
scenery is peculiarly interesting at the close of a 
summer day. As we advance northwards, the 
number of the days of summer, indeed^ dimi- 
nishes ; but from this cause, as well as from the 
mildness of the temperature, the attraction in- 
creases, and the summer night becomes still 
more beautiful. The greater obliquity of the 
sun's path in the ecliptic, prolongs the grateful 
season of twilight to the midnight hours, and 
the shades of the evening seem to mingle with 
the morning's dawn. The rural poets of Scot- 
land, as may be expected, associate in their 
songs the expression of passion, with the roost 
beautiful of their scenery, in the fairest season 
of the year, and generally in those hours of the 
evening when the beauties of nature are most 
interesting. 

To all these adventitious circumstances, on 
which so much of the effect of poetry depends, 
great attention is paid by Burns, There is 
scarcely a single song of his in which particular 
scenery is not described, or allusions masle tr 
natural objects, remarkable for beauty or inte- 
rest ; and though his descriptions are not so full 
as are sometimes met with in the older Scottish 
songs, they are in the highest degree appropriate 
and interesting. Instances in proof of thi« 
might be quoted from the Lea Rig, Highland 
Mary, the Soldier's Return, Logan Water, 
fi-om that beautiful pastoral, Bonnie Jean, and 
a great number of others. Occasionally the 
force of his genius carries him beyond the usual 
boundaries of Scottish song, and the natural 
objects introduced have more of the character 
of sublimity. An instance of this kind is no- 
ticed by Mr. Syrae, and many others might be 
adduced. 

" Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the wave's dashing 
roar ; 
There would I weep my woes, 
There seek m^y lost repose, 
Till grief ray eyes should close 
Ne'er to wake more." 

In one song, the scene of which is laid in e 
winter night, the " wan moon" is described as 
" setting behind the white waves ;" in another, 
the " storms" are apostrophized, and command- 
ed to " rest in the cave of their slumbers." On 
several occasions, the genius of Burns loses sight 
entirely of his archetypes, and rises into a strain 
of uniform sublimity. Instances of this kind 
appear in Liberty, a Vision, and in his two 



96 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY 



I I 



I I 



\vai-s()ij2[s, JBruce to h!s troops, and tlie SoJt(/ 
of Death. These last are of a description of 
which we have no other in our language. The 
martial songs of our nation are not military, but 
naval. If we were to seek a comparison of 
these songs of Burns with others of a similar 
nature, we must have recourse to the poetry of 
ancient Greece, or of modern Gaul. 

Burns has made an important addition to the 
songs of Scotland. In his compositions, the 
j)oetry equals and sometimes surpasses the mu- 
sic He has enlarged the poetical scenery of his 
country. Many of her rivers and mountains, 
formerly unknown to the muse, are now conse- 
crated by his immortal verse. The Doon, the 
Lugar, the Ayr, the Nith, and the Cluden, will 
in future, like the Yarrow, the Tweed, and the 
Tay, be considered as classic streams, and their 
borders will be trode with new and superior 
emotions. 

The greater part of the songs of Burns were 
written after he removed into the county of 
Dumfries. Influenced, perhaps, by habits 
formed in early life, he usually composed while 
walking in the open air. When engaged in 
writing these songs, his favourite walks were 
m the banks of the Nith, or of the Cluden, 
particularly near the ruins of Lincluden Abbey ; 
and this beautiful scenery he has very happily 
described under various aspects, as it appears 
during the softness and serenity of evening, and 
during the stillness and solemnity of the moon- 
light night. 

There is no species of poetry, the productions 
of the drama not excepted, so much calculated 
to influence the morals, as well as the happiness 
of a people, as those popular verses which are 
associated with the national aii's, and which 
being learnt in the. years of infancy, make a 
deep impression on the heart before the evolu- 
.ion of the powers of the understanding. The 
compositions of Burns, of this kind, now pre- 
sented in a collected form to the world, make a 
most important addition to the popular songs of 
his nation. Like all his other writings, they 
exhibit independence of sentiment ; they are 
peculiarly calculated to increase those ties which 
bind generous hearts to their native soil, and to 
the domestic circle of their infancy : and to 
cherish those sensibilities which, under due re- 
striction, form the purest happiness of our na- 
ture. If in bis unguarded moments he com- 
posed some songs on which this praise cannot 
be bestowed, let us hope that they will speedily 
be forgotten. In several instances, where Scot- 
tish airs were allied to words objectionable in 
point of delicacy, Burns has substituted others 
af a purer character. On such occasions, with- 
out changing the subject, he has changed the 
sentiments. A proof of this may be seen in the 
air of John Anderson my Joe, which is now 
united to words that breathe a strain of conjugal 
tenderness, that is as highly moral as it is ei- 
quisitely afl'ecting. 

Few circumstances could afford a more strik- 



ing proof of the strength of Burns's genius, thaft 
the general circulation of his poems in England, 
notwithstanding the dialect in which the great- 
er part are written, and which might be sup- 
posed to render them here uncouth or obscure. 
In some instances he has used this dialect on 
subjects of a sublime nature ; but in general he 
confines it to sentiments or description of a 
tender or humorous kind ; and, where he rises 
into elevation of thought, he assumes a purer 
English style. The singular faculty he pos- 
sessed of mingling in the same poem humorous' 
sentiments and descriptions, with imagery of a 
sublime and terrific nature, enabled him to use 
this variety of dialect on some occasions with 
striking effect. His poem of Tarn o' Shunter 
affords an instance of this. There he passes 
from a scene of the lowest humour, to situations 
of the most awful and terrible kind. He is a 
musician that runs from the lowest to the 
highest of his keys ; and the use of the Scottish 
dialect enables him to add two additional notes 
to the bottom of his scale. 

Gi'eat efforts have been made by the inhabi- 
tants of Scotland, of the superior ranks, to ap- 
proximate in their speech to the pure English 
standard ; and this has made it difficult to write 
in the Scottish dialect, without exciting in them 
some feelings of disgust, which in England are 
scarcely felt. An Euglishmau who understands 
the meaning of the Scottish words, is not of- 
fended, nay, gu certain subjects, he is perhaps 
pleased with the rustic dialect, as he may be 
with the Doric Greek of Theocri^.us. 

But a Scotchman inhabiting his own coun- 
try, if a man of education, and more especially 
if a literary character, has banished such words 
from his writings, and has attempted to banish 
them from his speech ; and being accustomed 
to hear them from the vulgar daily, does not 
easily admit of their use in poetry, which re- 
quires a style elevated and ornamental. A dis- 
like of this kind is, however, accidental, not na- 
tural. It is of the species of disgust which we 
feel at seeing a female of high birth in the dress 
of a rustic ; which, if she be really young and 
beautiful, a little habit will enable us to over- 
come. A lady who assumes such a dress puts 
her beauty, indeed, to a severer trial. She re- 
jects — she, indeed, opposes the influence of fa- 
shion ; she, possibly, abandons the grace of 
■ilegant and flowing drapery ; but her native 
charms I'emain, the more striking, perhaps, be- 
cause the less adorned ; and to these she trusts 
for fixing her empire on those aflections over 
which fashion has no sway. If she succeeds, a 
new association arises. The dress of the beau- 
tiful rustic becomes itself beautiful, aud estab- 
lishes a new fashion for the young and the gay. 
And when, in after ages, the contemplative ob- 
server shall view her picture in the gallery that 
contains the portraits of the beauties of succes- 
sive centuries, each in the dress of her respec- 
tive day, her drapery will not deviate, more 
than that of her rivals, from the standard of his 



ESSAY UPON SCOTTISH POETRY. 



97 



taste, and he will give the palm to her who ex- 
cels in the lineaments of nature. 

Burns wrote professedly for the peasantry of 
his country, and by them their native dialect is 
ur.iversally relished. To a numerous class of 
the natives of Scotland of another description, 
it may also be considered as attractive in a dif- 
ferent point of view. Estranged from their 
native soil, and spread over foreign lands, the 
idiom of their country unites with the senti- 
ments and the descriptions on which it is em- 
j)loyed, to recall to their minds the interesting 
scenes of infancy and youth — to awaken many 
pleasing, matiy tender recollections. Literary 
men, residing at Edinbnrgh or Aberdeen, can- 
not judge on this point for one hundred and 
fifty thou'^and of their expatriated countrymen. 

To the use of the Scottish dialect in one spe- 
cies of poetry, the composition of songs, the taste 
of the public has been for some time reconciled. 
The dialect in question excels, as has already 
been observed, in the copiousness and exactness 
of its terms for natural objects ; and in pastoi-al 
or rural songs, it gives a Doric simplicity, which 
is very generally approved. Neither does the 
regret seem well founded which some persons of 
taste have expressed, that Burns used this dia- 
lect in so many other of his compositions. His 
declared purpose was to paint the manners of 
rustic life among his " humble compeers," and 
it is not easy to ccmceive, that this could have 
been done with equal humour and effect, if he 
had not adopted their idiom. There are some, 
-indeed, who will think the subject too low for 
poetry. Persons of this sickly taste will find 
their delicacies consulted in many a polite and 
learned author; let them not seek for gratifica- 
tion in the rough and vigorous lines, in the un- 
bridled humour, or in the overpowering sensi- 
bility of this bard of nature. 

To determine the comparative merit of Burns 
would be no easy task. Many persons after- 
wards distinguished in literature, have been 
born in as humble a situation of life ; but it 
Wou.d be difficu>t to find any other who while 



earning his subsistence by daily labcar, haa 
written verses which have attracted and re- 
tained universal attention, and which are likely 
to give the author a permanent and distinguish- 
ed place among the followers of the muses. Il 
he is deficient in grace, he is distinguished for 
ease as well as energy ; and these are indica- 
tions of the higher order of genius. The father 
of epic poetry exhibits one of his heroes as ex- 
celling in strength, another in swiftness — to 
fi)rm his perfect warrior, these attributes are 
combined. Every species of intellectual supe- 
riority admits, perhaps, of a similar arrange- 
ment. One writer excels in force — another in 
ease; he is superior to them both, in whom 
both these qualities are united. Of Homei 
himself it may be said, that like his own Achil- 
les, he surpasses his competitors in mobility as 
well as strength. 

The force of Burns lay in the powers of his 
understanding, and in the sensibility of his 
heart ; and these will be found to infuse the 
living principle into all the works of genius 
which seem destined to immortality. His sen- 
sibility had an uncommon range. He was a- 
live to every species of emotion. He is one 
of the few poets that can be mentioned, who 
have at once excelled in humour, in tenderness, 
and in sublimity ; a praise unknown to the an- 
cients, and which in modern times is only due 
to Ariosto, to Shakspeare, and perhaps to Vol- 
taire. To compare the writings of the Scottish 
peasant with the works of these giants in liter- 
ature, might appear presumptuous ; yet it may 
be asserted that he has displayed the foot oj 
Hercules. How near he might have approach- 
ed them by proper culture, with lengthened 
years, and under happier auspices, it is not for 
us to calculate. But while we run over the 
melancholy stoiy of his life, it is impossible not 
to heave a sigh at the asperity of his fortune ; 
and as we survey the records of his mind, it ia 
easy to see, that out of such materials have been 
reared the fairest and the lEjst durable of titff 
manuments cf genius 



SB 



THE SONGS. 



The poetry of Burns has been referred to as one of the causes which 
prevented the Scottish language from falling into disuse. It was beginning 
to be discontinued as vulgar, even as the medium of oral communication ; 
and an obvious consequence of that state jf the public taste was, that the 
Scottish songs, sweetly pathetic and expressive as many of them are, were 
not fashionable, but rather studiously avoided. The publication of his 
poetry changed this taste. Burns, followed by Scott, not merely revived 
the use of their native tongue in their own country, but gave it a cur- 
rency in the polite world generally ; an effect which was greatly assisted by 
Burns's songs, and not a little by what he did for the songs of his prede- 
cessors. He was a most devoted admirer of the lyrical effusions of the 
olden time, and became a diligent collector of the ancient words, as well 
as of the sets of the music. His remarks, historical and anecdotic, upon 
the several songs, are amusing and Instructive ; and where tbere were 
blanks to be supplied, he was ready as powerful at a refit. To do all this^ 
and at same time to double the stock of Scottish songs, was no small task ; 
and so well has It been executed, that in place of forming the amusement 
and delight of the Scots only, they have become a part, nay, have taken 
the lead, of the lyrical compositions used, and in fashion, throughout the 
British dominions. It is because of their Intrinsic worth, as a branch of 
elegant amusement, that we have given the whole here, presented in two 
distinct parts : — The first part contains the songs before Burns, with the 
remarks, by which he has so felicitously illustrated them. — The second 
paft is formed of his own songs, and which are now brought together, in 
place of being scattered over, and mixed with the prose pieces, as heretO' 
fore. — The whole forming a complete collection of select Scottish Songs^ 
such as cannot fail to be acceptable to the lovers of good taste, and Inno- 
c«i)nt amusement in every country. 



L.oFC. 



100 



SELECT 



SCOTTISH SONGS. 



[The poet thus writes to Mrs. Dunlop : — ' I 
had an old grand-uncle, with whom my mo- 
ther lived awhile in her girlish years ; the 
good old man, for such he was, was long 
blind ere he died ; during which time, his 
highest enjoyment was to sit down and cry, 
while my mother would sing the simple old 
song of The Life and Age of Man.' The 
song, as here given, was taken down from the 
recitation of the poet's mother, who had 
never seen a printed copy of it, — and had 
learned it from her mother in early youth.] 

THE LIFE AND AGE OF MAN: 

OR, 

A SHORT DESCRIPTION OF HIS NATURE, RISE 

AND FALL, ACCORDING TO THE TWELVE 

MONTHS OF THE YEAR. 

Tune—" Isle of Kell." 

Upon the sixteen hunder year, 

of God and hfty three, 
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, 

as writings testifie ; 
On January the sixteenth day, 

as I did ly alone, 
With many a sigh and sob did say, 

Ah ! Man is made to moan. 

Dame Natur, that excellent bride, 

did stand up me before, 
And said to me, thou must provide 

this life for to abhor : 
Thou seest what things are gone before, 

experience teaches thee ; 
Yet do not miss to remember this, 

that one day thou must die. 

Of all the creatures bearing life 

recall back to thy mind, 
Consider how they ebb and flow, 

each thing in their own kind ; 
Yet few of them have such a strain, 

as God hath given to thee ; 
Therefore this lesson keep in mind,— 

lemember man to die. 



Man's course on earth will report. 

if I have time and space ; 
It may be long, it may be short, 

as God hath giv'n him grace. 
His natur to the herbs compare, 

that in the ground ly dead ; 
And to each month add five year, 

and so we will procede. 

The first five years then of man's life 

compare to Januar ; 
In all that tim.e but sturt and sti'ife, 

he can but greet and roar. 
So is the fields of flowers all bai'e, 

by reason of the frost ; 
Kept in the ground both safe and souQ& 

not one of them is lost. 

So to years ten I shall speak then 

of Februar but lack ; 
The child is meek and weak of spirt, 

nothing can undertalie : 
So all the flow'rs, for lack of show'rs, 

no springing up can make, 
Yet birds do sing and praise their king, 

and each one choose their mat<>. 

Then in comes ]\Iarch, that noble area, 

with wholesome spring and air. 
The child doth spring to years fifteen, 

with visage fine and fair ; 
So do the flow'rs with softening sho\r*r« 

ay spring up as we see ; 
Yet nevertheless remember this, 

that one day we must die. 

Then brave April doth sweetly smi.^ 

the flow'rs do fair appear. 
The child is then become a man, 

to the age of twenty year ; 
If he be kind and well inrlin'd, 

and brought up at the school, 
Then men may know if he foreshow 

a wise man or a fool. 

Then cometh May, gallant and gay, 
when frao'ant flow'rs do thrive. 



SONGS. 



101 



The child is then become a man, 

of age twenty and five : 
And for his life doth seek a wife, 

his hfe and years to spend ; 
Christ from above send peace and love, 

and grace unto tbe end ! 

Then coraeth June with pleasant tune, 

when fields with flow'rs are clad, 
And Phcebus bright is at his height, 

all creatures then are glad : 
Then he appears of thretty years, 

with courage bold and stout ; 
His nature so makes him to go, 

of death he hath no doubt. 

Then July comes with his hot climes, 

and constant in his kind, 
The man doth thrive to thirty-five, 

and sober grows in mind ; 
His children small do on him call, 

and breed him sturt and strife ; 



Then August old, both stout and bold, 

when flow'rs do stoutly stand ; 
So man appears to forty years, 

with wisdom and command ; 
And doth provide his house to guidcj 

children and familie ; 
Yet do not miss t' remember this, 

that one day thou must die. 

September then comes with his train, 

and makes the flow'rs to fade ; 
Then man belyve is forty-five, 

grave, constant, wise, and staid. 
WTien he looks on, how youth is gone, 

and shall it no more see ; 
Then may he say, both night and da ', 

have mercy, Lord, on me ! 

October's blast comes in with boast, 

and makes the flow'rs to fall ; 
Then man appears to fifty years, 

old age doth on him call : 
The almond tree doth flourish hie, 

and pale grows man we see ; 
Then it is time to use this line, 

remember, man, to die. 

November air maketh fields bare 

of flow')-s, of grd'^t^ and corn ; 
Then man arrives to fifty-five, 

and sick both e'en and morn : 
Loins, legs, and thighs, without disease, 

makes him to sigh and say, 
Ah ! Christ on high have mind on me, 

and learn me for to die ! 

December fell baith sharp and snell, 
makes flow'rs creep in the ground ; 

Then man's threescore, both sick and sore, 
no soundness in him found. 



His ears and e'en, and teeth of bane, 

all these now do him fail ; 
Then may he say, both night and day, 

that death shall him assail. 

And if there be, thro' natur stout, 

some that live ten years more ; 
Or if he creepeth up and down, 

till he comes to fourscore ; 
Yet all this time is but a line, 

no pleasure can he see : 
Then may he say, both night and day, 

have mercy. Lord, on me ! 

Thus have I shown you as I can, 

the course of all mens' life ; 
We will return where we began, 

but either sturt or strife : 
Dame Memorie doth take her leave, 

she'll last no more, we see ; 
God grant that I may not you grieve, 

Ye'll get nae mair of me. 



BESS THE GAWKIE. 

This song shews that the Scottish Muses did 
not all leave us when we lost Ramsay and Os- 
wald,* as I have good reason to believe that 
the verses and music are both ])osterior to the 
days of these two gentlemen. — It is a beautiful 
song, and in the genuine Scots taste. We have 
few pastoral compositions, I mean the pastoraV 
of nature, that are equal to this. — Burns. 

Blythe young Bess to Jean did say, 
Will ye gang to yon sunny brae, 
Where flocks do feed and herds do stray. 

And sport awhile wi' Jamie .'' 
Ah na, lass, I'll no gang there, 
Nor about Jamie tak nae care. 
Nor about Jamie tik nae care. 

For he's taen up wi' Maggy ! 

For hark, and I will tell you, lass. 
Did I not see your Jamie pass, 
Wi' meikle gladness in his face. 

Out o'er the muir to Maggy, 
I wat he gae her mony a kiss, 
And Maggy took them ne'er amiss ; 
'Tween ilka smack, pleas'd her with this, 

That Bess was but a gawkle. 

For when a civil kiss I seek, 

She turns her head, and thraws her cheek, 



* Oswald was a music-seller in London, about the 
year 1750. He published a large collection of Scottish 
tunes, which he called The Catedo7iian Pocket Compa- 
nion. iMi. Tytler observes, that his genius in compo- 
sition, joined to his taste in the performance of Scot- 
tish music, was natural and pathetic. This song has 
been imputed to a clergyman — Mr. Morehead of Uri 
m Galloway. 



102 BURNS' WORKS. 


And for an hour slie'Il scarcely speak ; 


The gladsome waters sung below. 


Wlio'd not call her a gawkie ? 


And the sweet wind sung above- 


But sure my Maggie has mair sense, 


Make way for Annie of Lochroyan, 


She'll gie a score without oflFence ; 


She comes to seek her love. 


Now gie me ane unto the mense, 




And ye shall be my dawtie. 


A gentle wind came with a sweep. 




And stretched her silken sail, 


0, Jamie, ye ha'e mony tane, 


When up there came a reaver rude, 


But I will never stand for ane, 


With many a shout and hail : 


Or twa, when we do meet again ; 


touch her not, my mariners a*, 


Sae ne'er think me a gawkie. 


Such loveliness goes free ; 


Ah, na, lass, that ne'er can be, 


Make way for Annie of Lochroyan, 


Sic thoughts as these are far from me, 


She seeks Lord Gregorie. 


Or ony that sweet face that see. 




E'er to think thee a gawkie. 


The moon looked out with all her stars, 




The ship moved merrily on. 


But whisht ! — nae mair of this we'll speak, 


Until she came to a castle high. 


For yonder Jamie does us meet ; 


That all as diamonds shone : 


Instead of Meg he kiss'd sae sweet. 


On every tower there streamed a light, 


I trow he likes the gawkie. 


On the middle tower shone three — 


O dear bess, I hardly knew. 


Move for that tower my mariners a', 


When I came by, your gown sae new, 


My love keeps watch for me. 


I think you've got it wat wi' dew ; 




Quoth she, that's like a gawkie : 


She took her young son in her arms. 




And on the deck she stood — 


It's wat wi' dew, and 'twill get rain, 


The wind rose with an angry gust, 


And I'll get gowns when it is gane. 


I'lie sea wave wakened rude. 


Sae you may gang the gate you came, 


Oh open the door. Lord Gregory, love . 


And tell it to your dawtie. 


Oh open and let me in ; 


The guilt appear'd in Jamie's cheek ; 


The sea foam hangs in my yellow hair, 


He cry'd, O cruel maid, but sweet, 


The surge dreeps down my chin. 


If I should gang anither gate. 




I ne'er could meet my dawtie. 


All for thy sake. Lord Gregory, love. 




I have sailed the perilous way. 


The lasses fast frae him they flew, 


And thy fair son is 'tween my breasts, 


And left poor Jamie sair to rue, 


And he'll be dead ere day. 


That ever INIaggy's face he knew, 


The foam hangs on the topmost cliff. 


Or yet ca'd Bess a gawkie. 


The fires run on the sky, 


As they went o'er the muir they sang ; 


And hear you not your true love's voicb 


The hills and dales with echoes rang, 


And her sweet baby's cry ? 


The hills and dales with echoes rang. 




Gang o'er the muir to Maggy ' 


Fair Annie turned her round about, 




And tears began to flow — 




May never a baby suck a breast 
Wi' a heart sae fou of woe. 






Take down, take down that silver masf 


FAIR ANNIE OF LOCHROYAN. 


Set up a mast of tree. 


(original song of OH OPEN THE DOOR, 


It does nae become a forsaken dame 


LORD GREGORY). 


To sail sae royallie. 


It is somewhat singular, that in Lanark, 


Oh read my dream, my mother, deal 


Renfrew, Ayr, Wigton, Kirkcudbright, and 


I heard a sweet babe greet, 


Dumfries-shires, there is scarcely an old song 


And saw fair Annie of Lochroyan 


or tune which, from the title, &c. can be gues- 


Lie cauld dead at my feet. 


sed to belong to, or be the production of these 


And loud and loud his mother laugnefl— 


counties. This, [ conjecture, is one of these 


Oh sights mair sure than sleep, 


very few ; as the ballad, which is a long one, 


I saw fair Annie, and heard hei voice, 


is called both by tradition and in printed collec- 


And her baby wail and weep. 


tions, The Lass o' Lochroyan, which I take to 




be Lochroyan in Galloway. — Burns. 


O he went down to yon sea side 




As fast as he could fare. 


Sweet Annie built a bonnie ship, 


He saw fair Annie and her sweet babe, 


And set her on the sea ; 


But the wild wind tossed them sair ; 


The sails were a' of the damask silk. 


And hey Annie, and how Annie, 


The masts oi^ silver free. 


And Annie wiuna ye bidy ? 



^ 


SONGS 103 


But aye the mair lie called A,jnie, 


! corns, my love ! thy CoHn's lay 


1 The broader grew the tide. 


With rapture calls, come away ! 




Come, while the Muse this wreath shall twine 


j And hey Annie, and how Annie, 


Around that modest brow of thine ; 


Dear Annie speak to mc. 


! hither haste, and with thee bring 


But aye the louder he cried Annie, 


That beauty blooming like the spring ; 


The louder roared the sea. 


Those graces that divinely shine, 


The wind waxed loud, the sea grew rough, 


And charm this ravish'd breast of mine! 


The ship sunk nigh the shore, 




Fair Annie floated through the foam, 
But the baby rose no more. 






! first he kissed her cherrj^ cheek, 


SAW YE JOHNNIE CUMMIN? 


And then he kissed her chin, 


QUO' SHE. 


And syue he kissed her rosy lips, 




But chere was nae breath within. 


This song for genuine humour in the verses, 


my love's love was true as light, 


and lively originality in the air, is unparalleled. 


As meek and sweet was she — 


I take it to be very old — Burns. 


My mother's hate was strong as death. 




And fiercer than the sea. 


Saw ye Johnnie cummin ? quo' she. 




Saw ye Johnnie cummin. 




saw ye Johnnie cummin, quo' she ' 
Saw ye Johnnie cummin. 




ROSLIN CASTLE. 


Wi' his blue bonnet on his head, 
And his doggie runnin, quo' she- 


These beautiful verses were the production 


And his doggie riiinin ? 


of a Richard Hewit, a young man that Dr. 




Blacklock, to whom I am indebted for the anec- 


Fee him, father, fee him, quo' she; 


dote, kept for some years as an amanuensis. I 


Fee him, father, fee him ; 


do not know who was the author of the second 


For he is a gallant lad, | 


song to the tune. Tytler, in his amusing his- 


And a weel doin' ; 


tory of Scots music, gives the air to Oswald ; 


And a' the wark about the house 


r.'ut in Oswald's own collectioa of Scots tunes. 


Gaes wi' me when I see him, quo' ihe } 


where he affixes an asterisk to those he himself 


Wi' me when I see him. 


composed, he does not make the least claim to 




the tune Burns. 


What will I do wi' him, hussy ? 




What will I do wi' him ? 


'TwAs in that season of the year. 


He's ne'er a sark upon his back, 


When all things gay and sweet appear, 


And I hae nane to gie him. 


That Colin, with the morning ray, 


I hae twa sarks into ray kist. 


Arose and sung his rural lay. 


And ane o' them I'll gie him, 


Of Nanny's charms the shepherd sung, 


And for a mark of mair fee, 


The hills and dales with Nanny rung ; 


Dinna stand wi' him, quo' sne ; 


Whde Roslin Castle heard the swain. 


Dinna stand wi' him. 


And echoed back the cheerful strain. 






For weel do I lo'e him, quo' she ; 


Awake, sweet Muse ! the breathing spring, 


Weel do I lo'e him : 


With rapture warms ; awake and sing ! 


fee him, father, fee him, quo' she j 


Awake and join the vocal throng, 


Fee him, father, fee him ; 


Who hail the morning with a song; 


He'll baud the pleugh, thrash i' the htrnf 


To Nanny raise the cheerful lay. 


And lie wi' me at e'en, quo' she ; 


! bid her haste and come away ; 


Lie wi' me at e'en. 


In sweetest smiles herself adorn. 




And add new graces to the morn ! 
O, hark, my love ! on ev'ry spray. 






Each feather'd warbler tunes his lay ; 


CLOUT THE CALDRON. 


Tis beauty fires the ravish'd throng. 




And love inspires the melting song : 


A TRADITION is mentioned in the Bee, that 


Then let my raptur'd notes arise, 


the second Bishop Chisholm, of Dunblane, used 


For beauty darts from Nanny's eyes : 


to say, that if he were going to be hanged, no- 


And love my rising bosom warms, 


thing would soothe his mind so much by the 


And fills my soul with sweet alarms. 


way, as to hear Clout the Caldron played. 


■ 1 



104 



I ! 



T bave met wltL another tradition, that the 
old song to this tune, 

Hae ye ony pots or pans, 
Or onie broken chanlers, 

was composed on one of the Kenmure family, in 
the Cavalier times ; and alluded to an amour he 
had, while under hiding, in the disguise of an 
itinerant tinker. The air is also known by the 
name of 

The Blacksmith and his Apron, 

which from the rythym, seems to have been a 
line of some old song to the tune. — Burns. 

Have you any pots or pans, 

Or any broken chandlers ? 
I am a tinkler to my trade. 

And newly come frae Flanders, 
As scant of siller as of grace. 

Disbanded, we've a bad run ; 
Gar tell the lady of the place, 

I'm come to clout her caldron. 

Fa adrie, didle, didle, &c. 

]\iadam, if you have wark for me, 

I'll do't to your contentment, 
And dinna care a single flie 

For any man's resentment ; 
For, lady' fair, though I appear 

To ev'ry ane a tinkler, 
Yet to yoursel I'm bauld to tell, 

I am a gentle jinker. 

Fa adrie, didle, didle, &c. 

Love Jupiter into a swan 

Turu'd for his lovely Leda ; 
He like a bull o"er meadows ran. 

To carry aff Europa. 
Then may not I, as well as he, 

To cheat your Argos blinker, 
And win your love, like mighty Jove, 

Thus hide me in a tinkler ? 

Fa adrie, didle, didle, &c. 

Sir, ye appear a cunning man, 

But this fine plot you'll fail in, 
For there is neither pot nor pan 

Of mine you'll drive a nail in. 
Then bind your budget on your back, 

And nails up in your apron, 
For I've a tinkler under tdck 

That's us'd to clout my caldron. 
Fa adrie, didle, didle, &c. 



BURNS' WORKS. 

the original one, but though it has a very great 



SAW YE NAE MY PEGGY? 

This charming song is much older, and in- 
deed superior, to Ramsay's verses, " The Toast," 
as he calls them. There is another set of the 
words, much older still, and which I take to be 



deal of" merit, it is not quite ladies' reading — 

BUKNS. 

Saw ye nae my Peggy, 
Saw ye nae m-y Peggy, 
Saw ye nae my Peggy, 

Coming o'er the lea ? 
Sure a finer creature 
Ne'er was form'd by nature, 
So complete each feature, 

So divine is she. 

O ! how Peggy charms me ; 
Every look still warms me ; 
Every thought alarms me. 

Lest she love nae me. 
Peggy doth discover 
Nought but charms all overj 
Nature bids me love her. 

That's a law to me. 

Who would leave a lover, 
To become a rover ? 
No, I'll ne'er give over, 

'Till I happy be. 
For since love inspires me, 
As her beauty fires me, 
And her absence tires me, 

Nought can please but she. 

When I hope to gain her. 
Fate seems to detain her, 
Cou'd I but obtain her, 
Happy wou'd I be ! 
I'll ly down before her, 
Bless, sigh, and adore her. 
With faint looks implore her, 
'Till she pity me. 

The original words, for they can scarcely be 
called verses, seem to be as follows ; a song fa- 
miliar from the cradle to every Scottish ear. 

Saw ye my Maggie, 
Saw ye ray INIaggie, 
Saw ye my IMaggie, 
Linkin o'er the lea ? 

High kilted was she, 
High kilted was she, 
High kilted was she. 

Her coat aboon her knee, 

Wliat mark has your Maggie, 
What mark has your INIaggie, 
What mark has your Maggie, 
That ane may ken hci ue 9 {by) 

Though it by no means -follows that the sil- 
liest verses to an air must, for that reason, be 
the original song ; yet I take this ballad ol 
which I have quoted part, to be the old verges. 
The two songs in Ramsay, one of them evi- 
dently his own, are never to be met with in the 



1 


SONGS. lOi: 


fire-side circle of our peasantry ; while tliat 


If they command the storms to blaw, 


which I take to be the old soag, is in every 


Then upo' sight the hailstains thud 


shepherd's mouth. Rami,vj, I suppose, had 




thought the old verses unworthy of a place in 


But soon as ere they cry, " Be quiet,' 


his collection Burns. 


The blatt'ring winds dare nae raair move, 




But cour into their caves, and wait 




The high command of supreme Jovs. 
Let nelst day come as it thinks fit, 


FYE, GAE RUB HER O'ER WI' STRAE. 




The present minute's only ours ; 


It is self-evident that the first four lines of 


On pleasure let's employ our wit. 


this song are part of a song more ancient than 


And laugh at fortune's fickle powew. 


Ramsay's beautiful verses which are annexed to 


i 


rhem. As music is the language of nature ; and 


Be sure ye diuna quat the grip 


poetry, particularly songs, are always less or 


Of ilka joy when ye are young, j 


more localized (if I may be allowed the verb) 


Before auld age your vitals nip, j 


by some of the modifications of time and place. 


And lay ye tvvufald o'er a rung. | 


this is the reason why so many of our Scots airs 


1 


aave outlived their original, and perhaps many 


Sweet youth's a blythe and heartsonae time ; j 


subsequent sets of verses ; except a single name. 


Then, lads and lasses, while it's May, j 


«• phrase, or sometimes one or two lines, simply 


Gae pou the gowan in its prime. 


'■.0 distinguish the tunes by. 


Before it wither and decay. 


To this day among people who know nothing 




d Ramsay's verses, the following is the song, 


Watch the saft minutes of delyte, 


.-nd all the song that ever I heard : — Burns. 


When Jenny speaks beneath her breath, 




And kisses, laying a' the wyte 


Gin ye meet, a bonnie lassie. 


On you, if she kepp ony skaith. 


Gie her a k.ss and let her gae ; 




But gii^ ye meet a dirty hizzie, 


" Haith, ye're ill-bred," she'll smiling say; 


Fye, gar lub her o'er wi' strae. 


" Ye'U worry me, ye greedy rook ;" 


, 


Syne frae your arms she'll rin away, 


Fye, gae rub her, rub her, rub her, 


And hide hersell in some dark nook. 


Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae : 




An' gin ye meet a dirty hizzie, 
Fye, gar rub her o'er wi' strae. 


Her laugh will lead you to the place 
Where lies the happiness you want, 




And plainly tells you to your face. 

Nineteen nay-says are half a grant. | 




Look up to Pentland's tow'ring tap. 


1 


Bury'd beneath great wreaths of snaw, 


Now to her heaving bosom cling. 


O'er ilka cleugh, ilk scar, and slap. 


And sweetly toolie for a kiss, 


As high as ony Roman wa.' 


Frae her fair finger whop a ring, 




As taiken of a future bless. 


Driving their baws frae whins or tee, 


1 


There's no nae gowfers to be seen ; 


These bennisons, Fra very sure, j 


Nor dousser fowk wysing a-jee 


Are of the gods' indulgent grant ; 


The byass- bonis on Tamson's green. 


Then, surly carles, whisht, forbear 




To plague us with your whining cant. 


Then fling on coals, and ripe the ribs. 




And beek the house baith butt and ben ; 




That mutchkin stowp it hads but dribs, 




Then let's get in the tappit hen. 




Good claret best keeps out the cauld, 


THE LASS 0' LIVISTON. 


And drives away the winter soon ; 




It makes a man baith gasl ind bauld, 


The old song, in three eight -line stanzas, is 


And heaves his saul bejrond the moon. 


well known, and has merit as to wit and hu- 




mour ; but it is rather unfit for insertion.— 1* 


1 Leave to the gods your ilka care, 


begins, 


If that they think us worth their while. 




They can a rowth of blessings spare, 


The bonnie lass o' Liviston, 


Which will our fashions fears beguile. 


Her name ye ken, her name ye ken, 


j 


And she has written in her contract, 


1 For what they have a mmd to do, 


To lie her lane, to lie her lane. 


1 That will theV 'o should we gang wood ; 


&c. &c. 


La 


I 



x06 



BURNS' WORKS. 



THE LAST TIME I CAME O'ER THE 
MUIR. 

Ramsay found the first line of this song, 
which had been preserved as the title of the 
charming air, and then composed the rest of the 
verses to suit that line. This has always a finer 
effect than composing English words, or words 
with an idea foreign to the spirit of the old title. 
Where old titles of songs convey any idea at all, 
it will generally be found to be quite in the 
spirit of the air. — Burns. 

The last time 1 came o'er the muir, 

I left my love behind me : 
Ye pow'rs I what pain do I endure, 

"When soft ideas mind me. 
Soon as the ruddy morn display'd 

The beaming day ensuing, 
I met betimes my lovely maid, 

In fit retreats for wooing. 

Beneath the cooling shade we lay, 

Gazing and chastely sporting ; 
We kiss'd and promis'd time away, 

Till night spread her black curtain : 
I pitied all beneath the skies, 

Ev'n kings, when she was nigh me ; 
In raptures I beheld her eyes. 

Which could but ill deny me. 

Ghould 1 be call'd where cannons roar. 

Where mortal steel may wound me ; 
Or cast upon some foreign shore, 

Where dangers may surround me ; 
Yet hopes again to see my love. 

To feast on glowing kisses, 
Shall make my cares at distance move, 

In prospect of such blisses. 

In all my soul there s not one place 

To let a rival enter ; 
Since she excels in ev'ry grace. 

In her my love shall centre. 
Sooner the seas shall cease to flow, 

Their waves the Alps shall cover ; 
On Greenland's ice shall roses grow, 

Before I cease to love her. 

fhe next time I gang o'er the muir, 

She shall a lover find me ; 
ind that my faith is firm and pure. 

Though I left her behind me. 
Then Hymen's sacred bonds shall chain 

My heart to her fair bosom ; 
There, while my being does remain. 

My love more fresh shall blossom. 



The Weaver and 
though sung much 
very tune. 



Ms Shuttle, O, wnit, 
quicker, is evt y note the 



When I was in my se'nteen year, 

I was baith blythe and bonny, 
O thp lads loo'd me baith far and near. 

B::- I loo'd nane but Johnny : 
He gain'd my heart in twa three weeks^ 

He spake sae blythe and kindly ; 
And I made him new gray breeks. 

That fitted him most finely. 

He was a handsome fellow ; 

His humour was baith franiv .md fret,. 
His bonny locks sae yellow. 

Like gowd they glitter'd in my ee ;— 
His dimpl'd chin and rosy cheeks. 

And face sae fair and ruddy ; 
And then a-days his gray breeks. 

Was neither auld nor daddy. 

But now they're threadbare 'vorn. 

They're wider than they wont to be j 
They're tashedlike,* and sair torn, 

And clouted sair on ilka knee. 
But gin I had a simmer's day, 

As I have had right mony, 
I'd make a web o' new gray, 

To be breeks to my Johnny. 

For he's weel wordy o' them, 

And better gin I had to gie, 
And I'll tak pains upo' them, 

Frae fauts I'll strive to keep them frfcft 
To dead him weel shall be my care, 

And please him a' my study ; 
But he maun wear the auld pair 

A wee, tho' they be duddy. 

For v/hen the lad was in his prime, 

Like him there was nae mony 
He ca'd me aye his bonny thing, 

Sae wha wou'd na lo'e Johnny ? 
So I lo'e Johnny's gray breeks. 

For a' the care they've gi'en me yet, 
And gin we live anither year. 

We'll keep them hale between us yet. 

Now to conclude, — his gray breeks, 

I'll sing them up wi' mirth and glee ; 
Here's luck to a' the gray steeks. 

That show themsells upo' the knee ! 
And if wi' health I'm spared, 

A' wee while as I may, 
I shall hae them prepared. 

As wee' as ony that's o' gray 



JOHNNY'S GRAY BREEKS. 

Though this has certainly every evidence of 
ling a Scottisn air, yet there is a well-known 
ne and song in the Noith of Ireland, called, 



Stained. 



SONGS. 



107 



MAY EVF OR KATE OF ABERDEEN. 

Kate of Aberdeen, is, I believe, the work of 
poor Cunningham the player ; of whom the fol- 
lowing anecdote, though told before, deserves a 
recital. A fat dignitary of the church coming 
past Cunningham one Sunday as the poor poet 
was busy plying a fishing-rod in some stream 
near Durham, his native country, his reverence 
reprimanded Cunningham very severely for such 
an occupation on such a day. The poor poet, 
with that inoffensive gentleness of manners which 
was his peculiar characteristic, replied, that he 
hoped God and his reverence would forgive his 
seeming profanity of that sacred day, *' as he had 
no dinner to eat, hut what lay at the bottom of 
that pool /" This, Mr. Woods, the player, who 
knew Cunningham well, and esteemed him much 
assured me was true. — Burns. 

ilver moon's enamour'd beam, 

Steals softly through the night. 
To wanton with the winding stream, 

And kiss reflected light. 
To beds of state go balmy sleep, 

('Tis where you've seldom been), 
May's vigil while the shepherds keep 

With Kate of Aberdeen ! 

Upon the gret-.^. the virgins wait. 

In rosy chaplets gay, 
Till morn unbar her golden gate, 

And give the promis'd May. 
Methinks I hear the maids declare 

The promis'd May, when seen, 
Not half ,so fragrant, half so fair, 

As Kate of Aberdeen ! 

Strike up the tabor's boldest notes. 

We'll rouse the nodding grove ; 
The nested birds shall raise their throats, 

And hail the maid I love : 
And see — the matin lark mistakes. 

He quits the tufted green ; 
Fond bird ! 'tis not the morning breaks, 

'Tis Kate of Aberdeen ! 

Now lightsome o'er the level mead, 

Wliere midnight fairies rove. 
Like them, the jocund dance we'll lead, 

Or tune the reed to love : 
For see the rosy May draws nigh. 

She claims a virgin queen ; 
And hark, the happy shepherds cry, 

<« 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen !" 



Ayrshire. — The following anecdote I had from 
the present Sir William Cunningham, of Robert- 
land, who had it from the last John, Earl oi 
Loudon. — The then Earl of Loudon, lather to 
Earl John, before mentioned, had Ramsay at 
Loudon, and one day walking together by the 
banks of Irvine water, near New-Milis, at a 
place yet called Patie's Mill, they were struck 
with the appearance of a beautiful country girL 
His lordship observed, that she would be a fine 
theme fur a song. — Allan lagged behind in re- 
turning to Loudon Castle, and at dinner produc- 
ed this identical song Burns. 

The lass of Patie s mill, 

So bonny, blythe, and gay. 
In spite of all my skill. 

She stole my heart away. 
When tedding of the hay, 

Bare-headed on the green, 
Love 'midst her locks did play, 

And wantonM in her een. 

Her arms white, round, and smooth, 

Breasts rising in their dawn, 
To age it would give youth. 

To press 'em with his hand : 
Thro' all my spirits rac 

An ecstasy of bliss, 
When I such sweetness fand 

Wrapt in a balmy kiss. 

Without the help of art, 

Like flowers which grace the wild. 
She did her sweets impart, 

Whene'er she spoke or smil'd. 
Her looks they were so mild. 

Free from affected pride, 
She me to love beguil'd ; 

I wish'd her for my bi'ide. 

O had I all that weiJth, 

Hopeton's high mountains * fill, 
Insur'd lang life and health, 

And pleasure at my will ; 
I'd promise and fulfil. 

That none but bonny she. 
The lass of Patie's mill 

Shou'd share the same wi' me. 



THE TURNIMSPIKE, 

There is a stanza of this excellent song foi 
local humour, omitted in this set, — where I have 
placed the asterisnia.f 

Hersem. pe highland ihentleman, 
Pe auld as Pothwell Prig, man ; 

In Sinclairs Statistical Account of Scotland, — — — ■ — ■ 

this song is localized (a verb I mwsf use for want I * Thirty-three miles south-west of Edinburgh. 
of another to express my idea) somewhere in the ^^^"^^ ^^^ l^'} "f Hopeton's mines are. ' 

-T ^1 i- o .1 J 1 1-1 ■ • I • J i_ ' t Burns had placed the asterisms between the 9tfc 

North of *=;cotland. and likewise is claimed by and 10th verses. The verse is here restored. 



THE LASS OF PATIE'S MILL. 



i08 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Aiid mony alterations seon 

Aniang te lawland whig, man. 
Fal, §-c 

First when her to the lawlands came, 
Narnsel was driving cows, man ; 

There was uae laws about him's nerse, 
About the preeks or trews, man. 

Nainsell did wear the philabeg, 
The plaid prick't on her shouder ; 

The guid claymore hung pe her pelt, 
De pistol sharg'd wi' pouder. 

But for whereas these cursed preeks, 
Wherewith miin's nerse be locket, 

O hon ! that e'er she saw the day ! 
For a' her houghs be prokit. 

Every ting in de highlands now 

Pe turn'd to alteration ; 
The sodger dwall at our door-sheek, 

And tat's te great vexation, 

Scotland be turn't a Ningland now, 

An' laws pring on de eager ; 
Nainsell wad durk him for his deeds, 

But oh ! she fear te sodger. 

Anither law came after dat. 

Me never saw de like, man ; 
They mak a lang road on de crund, 

And ca' him Turnimspike, man. 

An' wow ! she pe a ponny road, 
Like Louden corn-rigs, man ; 

Where twa carts may gang on her. 
An' no preak ithers legs, man. 

They sharge a penny for ilka horse, 
(In troth, they'll no pe sheaper) ; 

For nought but gaen upo' the crund, 
And they gie Ece a paper. 

Thei/ tak the horse then py te head, 

And tere tey mak her stan, man ; 
Me tell tern, me hae seen te day, 
Tey had na sic comman\ man. 

Nae doubt, Nainsell maun traw his purse. 
And pay tem what him likes, man j 

I'll see a shudgment on his toor ; 
Tat filthy Turnimspike, man. 

But I'll awa to the Highland hills, 
Where te'il a ane dare turn her, 

^. nd no come near your Turnimspike, 
Unless it pe to purn her. 

Fal, ^c. 



HIGHLAND LADDIE. 

As this was a favourite theme with our late* 
Scottish muses, there are several airs and songs 
of that name. That which I take to be the 
oldest, is to be found in the Mnsical Museum, 
beginning, I hae been at CrooJne-den. — 

I HAE been at Crookie-den,* 

My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; 

Viewing Willie and his men, 

BIy bonnie laddie, Highland laddie 

There our faes that burnt and slew. 
My bonnie laddie. Highland laddie ; 

There, at last, they gut their due, 
My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. 

Satan sits in his black neuk. 

My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; 

Breaking sticks to roast the Duke, 
My bonnie laddie. Highland laddie : 

The bluidy monster gae a yell. 

My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie; 

And loud the lauyh gaed round a' hell ! 
My bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. 

One of my reasons is, that Oswald has it in his 
collection by the name of The auld Highland 
Laddie. — It is also known by the aame of 
Jinglan Juhnie, which is a well known song of 
four or five stanzas, and seems to be an earlier 
song than Jacobite time*. Asa proof of this, it 
is little known to the peasantry by the name of 
Highland Laddie ; while every body knows 
Jinglan Johnie. The song begins, 

Jinglan John, the meickle man. 

He met wi' a lass was blythe and bonnie. 

Another Higland Laddie is also in the Mu- 
seum, vol. v. which I take to be Ramsay's ori- 
ginal, as he has borrowed the chorus " O my 
bonnie Highland lad, 8fc.'' It consists of three 
stanzas, besides the chorus ; and has humour in 
its composition — it is an excellent but somewhat 
licentious song. — It begins, 

As I cam o'er Cairney-Mount, 

And down amaug the blooming heather, &c. 

This air, and the common Highland Laddi&, 
seem only to be different sets. 

Another Highland Laddie, also in the Mu' 
seum, vol. v. is the tune of several Jacobite frag 
ments.— One of these old songs to it, only etistSg 
as far as I know, in these four lines — 

Whare hae ye been a' day, 

Bonnie ladd'ie. Highland laddie ? 
Down the back o' Bell's brae, 

Courtin IMaggie, courtin IMaggie. 

* A cant name for Hell 



SONGS. 



109 



Ano<;lier of this name is Dr. Arne's beautiful air, 
called, the new Highland Laddie,* 



THE BLAITHRIE O'T. 

The following Is a set of this song, which 
was the earliest song I remember to have got by 
heart. When a chilJ, an old woman sung it to 
me, and I picked it up, every word, at first 
hearing. 

WiLi.Y weel I mind, I lent you my hand, 
To sing yon a song which ynu did me command ; 
But my memory's so bad, I had almost forgot 
That you call'd it the gear and the blaithrie o't. 

I'll not sing about confusion, delusion, or pride, 
I'll sing about a laddie was for a virtuous bride ; 
For virtue is an ornament that time will never 
rot, 
. And preferable to gear and the blaithrie o't. 

Tho' my lassie hae nae scarlets or silks to put on, 
We envy not the greatest that sits upon the 
throne ; 

1 wad rather hae my lassie, tho' she cam in her 

smock, 
Than a princess wi' the gear and the blaithrie o't. 

Tho' we hae nae horses or menzie at command, 
We will toil on our foot, and we'll work wi' our 

hand ; 
And when wearied without rest, we'll find it 

sweet in any spot, 
And we'll value not the gear and the blaithrie o't. 

If we hae ony babies, we'll count them as lent ; 
Hae we less, hae we mair, we will aye be content ; 
For they say they hae mair pleasure that wins 

but a groat. 
Than the miser wi' his gear and the blaithrie o't. 

m not meddle wi' th' affairs o' the kirk or the 

queen ; 
They're nae matters for a sang, let them sink 

let them swim, 
On your kirk I'll ne'er encroach, but I'll hold It 

still remote, 
Sae tak this for the gear and the blaithrie o't. 



And how the lass that wants it Is by tLe lads 

forgot, 
May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie o't !• 

Jockle was the laddie that held the pleugh, 
But now he's got gowd and gear eneugh ; 
He thinks nae mair of me that wears the plaideif. 

coat ; 
May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie o't ! 

Jenny was the lassie that mucked the byre, 

But now she is clad in her silken attire. 

And Jockle says he lo'es her, and swears he's 

me forgot ; 
May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie o't ! 

But all tills shall never daunton me, 

Sae lang's I keep my fancy free : 

For the lad that'"s sae inconstant, he's not worth 

a groat ; 
May the shame fa* the gear and the blaithrie o't ! 



THE BLAITHRIE O'T. 

When I think on this warld's pelf, 

And the little wee share I have o't to myself. 



• The following observation was found in a memo- 
-andum book belonging to Burns: 

The Highlanders' Prayer at Sheriff^Muir. 

" O L — d l:>e thou with us ; but, if thou be not with 

us, be not against us ; but leave it bettveen the red coatt 



TWEEDSIDE. 

In Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany, he tells 
us that about thirty of the songs in that publi- 
cation were the works of some young gentlemen 
of his acquaintance ; which songs are marked 

with the letters D. C, &c Old Mr. Tytler, 

of Woodhouselee, the worthy and able defender 
of the beauteous Queen of Scots, told me that 
the songs marked C, in the Tea-table, were the 
composition of a Mr. Crawford, of the house of 
Achinames, who was afterwards unfortunately 

drowned coming from France As Tytler was 

most intimately acquainted with Allan Ramsay, 
I think the anecdote may be depended on. Of 
consequence, the beautiful song of Tweedside is 
Mr. Crawford's, and indeed does great honour 
to his poetical talents. He was a Robert Craw- 
ford ; the Mary he celebrates, was Mary Stuart, 
of the Castlemilk family, afterwards married tc 
a Mr. John Belches. 

What beauties does Flora disclose ! 

How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed : 
Yet Mary's still sweeter than those ; 

Both nature and fancy exceed. 
Nor daisy, nor sweet blushing rose. 

Not all the gay flowers of the field. 
Nor Tweed gliding gently through those, 

Such beauty and pleasure does yield. 

The warblers are heard in the grove. 
The linnet, the lark, and the thrush, 

The blackbird and sweet ctooing dove. 
With music enchant ev'ry bush. 



* Shame fall the gear and the bfad'ry o't, is the tuns 
of an old Scottish son^r, spoken when a young hand- 
some girl marries an old man, upon the account of h** 
wealth — KeUv's Scots Proverbs. 



no 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Come, let us go forth vo the mead, 
Let us see how the primroses spring. 

We'll lodge in some village on Tweed, 
And love while the feather 'd folks sing. 

How does my love pass the long day ? 

Does Mary not 'tend a few sheep ? 
Do they never carelessly stray, 

While happily she lies asleep ? 
Tweed's murnr.ars should lull her to rest ; 

Kind nature indulging my bliss. 
To relieve the soft pains of my breast, 

I'd steal an ambrosial kiss. 

*Tis she does the virgins excel, 

No beauty with her may compare ; 
Love's graces around her do dwell ; 

She's fairest, where thousands are fair. 
Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray ? 

Oh ! tell me at noon where they feed ; 
Shall I seek them on sweet winding Tay, 

Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed ? 

I have seen a song, calling itself the original 
Tweedside, and said to have been composed by 
a Lord Yester. It consisted of two stanaas, of 
which I still recollect the first. 

When Maggy and T was acquaint, 

I carried my noddle fu' hie ; 
Nae lintwhite on a' the green plain. 

Nor gowdspiuk sae happy as me : 
But I saw her sae fair, and I lo'ed ; 

I woo'd, but I came nae great speed ; 
So now I maun wander abroad, 

And lay my banes far frae the Tweed. 

The last stanza runs thus : — Ed. 

To Meiggy my love I did tell, 

Saut tears did my passion express, 
Alas ! for I loo'd her o'erwell, 

An' the women loo sic a man less. 
Her heart it was frozen and cauld, 

Her pride had my ruin decreed ; 
Therefore I will wander abroad, 

And lay my baues far frae the Tweed. 



THE BOATIE ROWS. 

The author of the JBoatie Hows, was a M 
Ewen of Aberdeen. It is a charming display of 
womanly ailection mingling with the concerns 
and occupations of life. It is nearly equal to 
There's nae luck about the house. 

O WKEL may the boatie row^ 
And better may she speed ; 
And leesoine may the boatie n, 
That wins my bairns bread ; 
The boatie rows, the boatie rows. 
The boatie rows indeed ; 
And weel may the boatie row 
That wins the bairns bread. 



I ciist * my line in Largo bay, 

And fishes I catch'd nine ; 

There was three to boil, and three to hj 

And three to bait the line : 

The boatie rows, the boatie row? 

The boatie rows indeed ; 

And happy be the lot of a' 

Who wishes her to speed. 

O weel may the boatie row. 
That fills a heavy creel,f 
And cleads us a' frae head to feet, 
And buys our porridge meal : 
The boatie rows, the boatie rows. 
The boatie rows indeed ; 
And happy be the lot of a* 
That wish the boatie speed. 

When Jamie vow'd he would be mine^ 
And wan frae me my heart, 

muckle lighter grew ray creel. 
He swoi'e we'd never part : 

The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 
The boatie rows fu' weel ; 
And muckle lighter is the load, 
When love bears up the creel. 

My kurtch I put upo' my head, 
And dress'd mysel' fu' braw ; 

1 true my heart was douf an* wae, 
WTien Jamie gaed awa : 

But weel may the boatie row, 
And lucky be her part ; 
And lightsome be the lassie's care. 
That yields an honest heart. 

When Sawney, Jock, an' Janetie, 

Are up and gotten lear. 

They'll help to gar the boatie row, 

And lighten a' our care : 

The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 

The boatie rows fu' weel ; 

And lightsome be her heart that bears 

The murlain, and the creel. 

And when wi' age we're worn down, 
And hirpling round the door, 
They'l; row to keep us dry and warm. 
As we did them before : — 
Then weel may the boatie row, 
She wins the Ibairns bread ; 
And happy be the lot of a' 
That wish the boat to speed ! 



THE HAPPY MARRIAGE, 

Another, out very pretty Anglo-Soot fciuk 
piece. 



* Cast. — The Aberdeenshire dialect. 
t Aji oeier basket. 



SONGS. 



Ill 



How blest lias ray time Deeu, what joys have I 

known, 
Since wedlock's soft bondage made Jessy my 

own ! 
So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain. 
That freedom is tasteless, and roving a pain. 

Thro' walks grown with woodbines, as often we 

stray, . 

Around us our boys and girls frolic and play : 
How pleasing their sport is ! the wanton ones 

see 
And borrow their tooks from my Jessy and me. 

To try her sweet temper, oft times am I seen 
In revels all day v/ith the nymphs on the green : 
Tho' painful my absence, my doubts she be- 
guiles, 
And meets me at night with complacence and 
smiles. 

What tho' on her cheeks the rose loses its hue, 
Her wit and good humour bloom aU the yeai- 

thro' ; 
Time still, as he flies, adds increase to her truth. 
And gives to her mind what he steals from her 

youth. 

Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to ensnare, 
And cheat, with false vows, the too credulous 

fair; 
In search of true pleasure, how vainly you roam ! 
To hold it for life, you must find it at home. 



Unto the yowes a milkin, iind sir, she says. 
With a double and adieu to thee fair May. 
What if I gang alang vvi' thee, my ain prettj 
May, 
Wi' thy red rosy cheeks, and thy coal-black 
hair ; 
Wad I be aught the warse o' that, kind sir, sht 
says, 
With a double and adieu to thee fair May. 
&c. &C-. 



THE POSIE. 

It appears evident to me that Oswald com- 
posed his Roslin Castle on the modulation of 
this au- — In the second part of Oswald's, in the 
three first bars, he has either hit on a wonder- 
fid similarity to, or else he has entirely borrow- 
ed the three first bars of the old air ; and the 
close of both tunes is almost exactly the same. 
The old verses to which it was sung, when I 
took down the notes from a country girl's voice, 
had no great merit. — The following is a speci- 
men : 

Th£%k was a pretty May,» and a milkin she 
went ; 
Wi' her red rosy cheeks, and her coal-black 
hair : 
And she has met a young man a comin o'er the 
beat, 
With a double and adieu to thee fair May. 

O where are ye goin, my ain pretty May, 

Wi thy red rosy cheeks, and thy coal-black 
hair ? 



Maid. 



THE POSTE 

O LuvK will venture iu, -yhere it daur na wee' 

be seen, 
O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has 

been, 
But I will down yon river rove, amang the 

wood sae green, 
And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. 

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o* the year, 

And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear, 

For she's the pink o' woman kind, and blooms 

without a peer ; 

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps 
in view. 

For it's like a baumy kiss o* her sweet bonie 
mou ; 

The hyacinth's for constancy wi' its unchang- 
ing blue. 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, 
And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there ; 
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air, 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May ; 

The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller 

gi-ey, 
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o 

day. 
But the songster's nest within the bush 1 winnj 

tak away ; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May 

The woodbine I will pu', when the e'ning sta 

is near. 
And the diamond djaps o' dew shall be her e'ej 

sae clear ; 
The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's ti 

wear, 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll tie the posie round wi* the silken band o 

luve, 
And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear b> 

a' above, 
That to my latest draught o* life the band shaH 

ne'er remuve. 
And this will be a posie to my ain. t^ar Mav 



112 



BURNS' WORKS. 



MARY'S DREAM. 



The Mary here alluded to is generally sup- 
pi '-,0 be INIiss Mary Macghie, daughter to 
the ^dird of Airds, In Galloway. The poet 
was a Mr. Alexander Lowe, who likewise 
wrote another beautiful song, called Pompei/s 
Ghost. — I have seen a poetic epistle from him 
in North America, where he now is, or lately 
was, to a lady in Scotland. — By the strain of 
the verses, it appeared that they allude to some 
love disappointment. 

The moon had c'imb'd the hignest hill, 

Which rises o'er the source of Dee, 
And from the eastern summet shed 

Her silver light on tow'r and tree : 
When Mary kid her down to sleep, 

Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea ; 
When soft and low a voice was heard, 

Saying, Mary, weep no more for me. 

She from her pillow gently rais'd 

Her head to ask, who there might be ; 

She saw young Sandy shiv'ring stand, 
With visage pale and hollow eye ; 

* O INIary, dear, cold is my clay, 

' It lies beneath a stormy sea ; 
' Far, far from thee, I sleep in death ; 
' So, Mary, weep no more for me. 

' Three stormy nights and stormy days 
< We toss'd upon the raging main ; 

* And long we strove our bark to save, 

' But all our striving was in vain. 
' E'en then when horror chill'd my blood, 
' My heart was fill'd with love for thee : 

* The storm is past, and I at rest ; 

' So, Mary, weep no more for me. 

* O maiden dear, thyself prepare, 

' We soon shall meet upon that shore, 

* Where love is free from doubt and care, 

' And thou and I shall part no more !' 
Loud crow'd the cock, the shadows fled, 

No more of Sandy could she see ; 
But soft the passing spirit said, 

" Sweet Mary, weep no more forme !" 



He wad neither ly in barn, nor yet wad he in 

byre, 
But in 3-hint the ha' door, or else afore the fire, 
And well gang nae mair, Sfc 

The beggar's bed was made at e'en wi' good 

clean straw and hay, 
And in ahint the ha' door, and there the beggar 

lay. 

And ivfill gang nae mair, Sfc. 

Up raise the good man's dci-hter, and for lo bar 

the door, 
And there she saw the beggar standin i' the 

floor. 

And well gang nae mair, 8fc 

He took the lassie ia hia a-rms, and to the bta 

he ran. 
O hooly, hoojy wi* me, sir, ye'U waken out 

goodinan, 

And well gang nae mair, Sfc. 

The beggar was a cunnin loon, and ne'er a 

word he spake. 
Until he got his turn done, syne he began tc 

crack. 

And we'll gang nae mair, 8fc. 

Is there ony aogs into this town ? maiden, tell 

me true, 
And what wad ye do wi' them, my hinny and 

my dow ? 

And we'll gang nae mair, 8fc. 

They'll rive a' my mealpocks, and do me meikle 

wrang, 
O dool for the doing o't ! are ye the puir man ? 
And we'll gang nae mair, 8fc. 

Then she took up the mealpocks and flang theui 

o'er the wa', 
The deil gae wi' the mealpocks, my maidenhea< 

and a', 

And we'll gang nae mair, 8fc. 



THE JOLLY BEGGAR. 



I took ye for some gentleman, at least the laird 

of Brodie ; 
O dool for the doing o't ! are ye the puir bodie? 
Ajid we'll gang nae mair, §*c. 



Said to have been composed oy King James "e took the lassie in his arms, and gae her kisses 
v., on a frolic of his own. | three, 

And four-and-twenty hunder merk to pay the 



nurice-fee, 

And we'll gang nae mair, 8fC. 



There was a jolly beggar, and a begging he 

was boun', 
And he took up his quarters into a land'art 

town. He took a horn frae his side, and blew baitb 

And we'll gang nae mair a roving, loml and shrill, 

Sae late into the night, And four-and-twenty belted knights came skip- 

^nd we'll gang nae mair a rolling, boys, ping o'er the hill, 

Let the moon shine ne'er sae bright I j And we'll gang nae nmir, §-c. 



SONGS. 113 


And Ke took out his little knife, loot a' his dud- 


When 'tis carded, row'd and spun, 


dies fa', 


Then the work is haflens done : 


And he was the brawest gentleman that was 


But when woven, drest and clean, 


araang them a'. 


It may be cleading for a queen. 


And we'll gang nae mair, 8^c. 






Sing, my bonny harmless sheep, 


The beggar was a cllver loon, and he lap shoul- 


That feed upon the mountain's steep, * 


der height, 


Bleating sweetly as ye go, 


ay for sicken quarters as I gat yesternight ! 


Thro' the winter's frost and snow ; 


And we'll gang nae mair, 8j-c. 


Hart, and hynd, and fallow-deer, 




No be haff so useful are : 




Frae kings to him that hads the plovir, 
Are all oblig'd to tarry woo. 




THE MAID THAT TENDS THE GOATS. 


Up, ye shepherds, dance and skip, 




O'er the hills and vallies trip. 


BY MR. DUDGEON. 




Sing up the praise of tarry woo, 


This Dudgeon is a respectable farmer's son 


Sing the flocks that bear it too ; 


in Berwickshire. 


Harmless creatures without blame. 




That dead the back, and cram the wame. 


Up amang yon cliffy rocks 


Keep us warm and hearty fou ; 


Sweetly rings the rising echo, 


Leese me on the tarry woo. 


To the maid that tends the goats. 




Lilting o'er her native notes. 


How happy is the shepherd's life. 


Hark ! she sings, " Young Sandy's kind 


Far frae courts, and free of strife. 


An' he's promised ay to loe me ; 


While the gimmers bleat and bae, 


Here's a brooch I ne'er shall tine 


And the lambkins answer mae : 


TiU he's fairly married to me : 


No such music to his ear; — • 


Drive away ye drone Time, 


Of thief or fox he has no fear ; 1 


An' bring about our bridal day. 


Sturdy Kent and Collg true, 




Will defend the tarry woo. 


" Sandy herds a flock o' sheep, 




Aften does he blaw the whistle, 


He lives content, and envies none ; 


In a strain sae saftly sweet, 


Not even a monarch on his throne, 


Lammies list'ning daurna bleat. 


Tho' he the royal sceptre sways, 


He's as fleet's the mountain roe, 


Has not sweeter holidays. 


Hardy as the highland heather, 


Who'd be a king, can ony tell, 


Wading through the winter snow, 


When a shepherd sings sae well ? 


Keeping ay his flock together ; 


Sings sae well, and pays his due, 


But a plaid, wi' bare houghs, 


With honest heart and tarry woo. | 


He braves the bleakest norlin blast. 


1 


" Brawl y he can dance and sing 


1 


Canty glee or highland cronach ; 




Nane can ever match his fling. 


THE COLLIER'S BONNIE LASSIE. 


At a reel, or round a ring ; 




Wightly can he wield a rung. 


The first half stanza is much older than the 


In a brawl he's ay the bangster : 


days of Ramsay — The old words began thus :— 


A' his praise can ne'er be sung 


1 


By the langest-winded sangster. 


The collier has a dochter, and, O, she's won- 


Sangs that sing o' Sandy 


der bonnie ! 


Come short, though they were e'er sae lang." 


A laird he was that sought her, rich baith in 




lands and money. 




She wad na hae a laird, nor wad she he a lady 
But she wad hae a collier, the color o' her daddie 




TARRY WOO. 
This is a very pretty song ; but I fancy that 




The collier has a uaughter. 


the first half stanza, as well as the tune itself, 


And she's wonder bonny ; 


are much older than the rest of the words. 


A laird he was that sought her, 




Rich baith in lands and money : 


Tarry woo, tarry woo, 


The tutors watch'd the motion 


Tarry woo is ill to spin ; 


Of this young honest lover ; 


Card' it well, card it well, 


But love is like the ocean ; 


Card a/ell ere ye begin. 


Wha car- ^ts depth discover ? 



114 



BURNS' WORKS. 



i! 



He had i le art to please ye, 

Ami WHS by a' respected ; 
His airs sat round him easy, 

Genteel, but unaffected. 
The collier's bonnie lassie, 

Fair as the new-blown lilie, 
«Ay sweet, and never saucy, 

Secur'd the heart of Willie. 

He lov'd beyond expression 

The charms that were about her^ 
And panted for possession, 

His life was dull without her. 
After mature resolving. 

Close to his breast he held her 
In saftest flames dissolving. 

He tenderly thus tell'd her : 

My bonny collier's daughter. 

Let naething discompose ye, 
'Tis no your scanty tocher 

Shall ever gar rae lose ye : 
For I have gear in plenty. 

And love says, *Tis my duty 
To ware what heav'n has lent me 

'^Jpon your wit and beauty. 



MY AIN KIND DEARIE— O. 

The old words of this song are omitted here, 
though much more beautiful than these insert- 
ed ; which were mostly composed by poor Fer- 
gusson, in one of his merry humours. — The old 
words began thus: — 

I'll rowe thee o*er the lea-rig. 

My ain kind dearie, O, 
I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O, 
Altho' the night vVere ne'er sae wat, 

And I were ne'er sae weary, O, 
I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O - 



Will ye gang o'er the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O ? 
And cuddle there sae kindlie. 

My ain kind dearie, O ? 
At thorny dike and birken-tree, 

We'll daff and ne*er be weary, O ; 
They'll scug ill een frae you and me, 

My ain kind dearie, O ! 

Nae herds, wi* kent or colly, there, 

Shall ever come to fear ye, O ; 
But lavrocks, whistling in the air. 

Shall woo, like me, their dearie, O. 
While others herd their lambs and yowes, 

And toil for warld's gear, my jo ; 
Upon the lea, my pleasure grows, 

Wi' thee my kind dearie, O. 



DOWN THE BURN, DAVIE. 

I have been informed, that the tune of Down 
the Burn, Davie, was the composition of David 
Maigh, keeper of the blood slough hounds, btv 
longing to the Laird of Riddel, in Tweeddale^ 

When trees did bud, and fields were green, 

And broom bloom d fair to see ; 
When Mary was complete fifteen, 

And love laugh'd in her e'e ; 
Blythe Davie's blinks her heart did move» 

To speak her mind thus free, 
Gang down the burn Davie, lovey 

And I shall follow thee. 

Now Davie did each lad surpass, 

That dwalt on yon burn side. 
And Mary was the bonniest lass. 

Just meet to be a bride ; 
Her cheeks were rosie, red and white, 

Her een were bonnie blue ; 
Her looks were like Aurora bright, 

Her lips like dropping dew. 

As down the burn they took their way, 

What tender tales they said I 
His cheek to her's he aft did lay. 

And with her bosom play'd ; 



What pass'd, I guess, was harmless play, 

And naething sure unmeet ; 
For, ganging hame, I heard them say, 

They lik'd a wal'K sae sweet ; 
And that they aften should return. 

Sic pleasure to renew ; 
Quoth Mary, Love, I like the burn, 

And ay shall follow you. * 



BLINK O'ER THE BURN, SWEET 
BETTY. 

The old words, all that I remember, are,-— 

Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, 

It is a cauld winter night ; 
It rains, it hails, it thunders. 

The moon she gies nae light : 
It's a* for the sake o' sweet Betty, 

That ever I tint my way ; 
Sweet, let me lie beyond thee. 

Until it be break o' day. — 

O, Betty will bake my bread, 

And Betty will brew my ale, 
And Betty will be my love. 

When I come over the dale : 



* The last four lines of the third stanza, being 
somewhat objectionable in jioint of delicacy, are omit- 
ted. Burns altered these lines. Had his alteration 
l)een attetutcd with his usual succes*, it would have 
been adowted. 



SONGS. 



lU 



Bliok ovei- the burn, sweet Betty, 
Blink over the burn to me, 

\nd while I hae life, dear lassie. 
My ain sweet Betty thou's be. 



THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE 
HOUSE. 

This is one of the most beautiful songs in 
the Scots, or any other language. — The two 



And will I see his face again ! 
Ana will I hear him speak ! 

as well as the two preceding ones, are unequall- 
ed almost by any thing I ever heard or read : 
and the lines, 

The present moment is our ain, 

The neist we nev^r saw- 
are worthy of the first poet.— It is long poste- 
rior to Ramsay's days. — About the year 1771, 
or 72, it came first on the streets as a ballad ; 
and I suppose the composition of the song was 
not much anterior to that period.* 

And are ye sure the news is true ? 
And are ye sure he's weel ? 
Is this a time to talk o' wark ? 
Ye jads, lay by your wheel ! 
Is this a time to talk of wark, 
When Colin' s at the door? 
Gie me my cloak ! I'll to the quay, 
And see him come ashore. 

For there's nae luck about the house, 

There^s nae luck ava ; 

There's little pleasure in the house, 

When our gudeman's awa. 



Rise up, and mak a clean fire-side, 

Put on the muckle pat ; 

Gie little Kate her cotton gown, 

And Jock his Sunday's coat ; 

And mak their shoon as black as slaes. 

Their hose as white as snaw ; 

It's a to please my ain gudeman, 

He likes to see them braw. 

For there's nae luck, §*c. 

There is twa hens upon the bank, 

'Sbeen fed this month and mair ; 

Mak haste and thraw their necks about, 

That Colin weel may fare ; 

And spread the table neat and clean, 

Gar ilka thing look braw ; 

It's a for love of my gudeman, i 

For he's been long awa. 

For there's nae luck, ^c. 

I * It is no V ascertained that Mcikle, the translate^ 

I df Canioens, was the author of this song. 



O gie me down my bigonets, 

My bishop-satin gown ; 

For I maun tell the bailie's wife 

That Colin's come to town ; 

My Sunday's shoon they maun gae on. 

My hose o' pearl blue. 

It's a' to please my ain gudeman, 

For he's baith leel and true. 

For there's nae luck, Sfc. 

Sae true's his words, sae smooth's his speeds 

His breath like caller air, 

His very foot has music in't, 

When he comes up the stair : 

And will I see his face again ! 

And will I hear him speak ! 

I'm dowright dizzy with the thought, 

In troth I'm like to greet ! 

For there's nae luck, ^c. 

The cauld blasts of the winter wind, 

That thrilled thro' my hearf. 

They're a' blaun by ; I hae hijn safe, 

'Till death we'll never part ; 

But what puts parting in my head ? 

It may be far awa ; 

The present moment is our ain. 

The neist we never saw ! 

For there's nae luck, 8fC. 

Since Colin's well, I'm well contep.t, 

I hae nae mair to crave ; 

Could I hut live to mak him blee*, 

I'm blest aboon the lave ; 

And will I see his face again! 

And will I hear him speak ! 

I'm downright dizzy with tne tiw»-'m 

In troth 1 'm like to gr4-et ! 



JOHN H>LY'P. BONKIF If 



John Hat's fivnme Lassi« was vNtghter of 
John Hav, E?.rl, cr Marquis of Tr^.eddale, and 

late Countess Dowigerof Roxburgh She died 

at Broomia-^Js, near Kelso, some time between 
the years. 17?0 tnd 1740. 

Bt smooth winding Tay a swain was reclining 
Aft cry'd he. Oh hey ! maun I still live pining 
Myml thus away, and daurna discover 
To my b^>nnie Hay that I am her lover ! 

Nae mair it will hide, the flame waxes stronger ; 
If she's not my bride, my days are nae langer : 
Then I'll take a heart, and try at a venture. 
Maybe, ere we part, my vows may content her. 

She's fresh as the Spring, and sweet as Aurora, 
When birds mount and sing, bidding day a good- 
morrow ; 
The swaird of the mead, enamell'd wi' daisies, 
Looks witler'd and dead when twin'd of her 
gTac.p<5. 



116 



BURNS' WORKS. 



But if she appear where verdure invites her, 
The fountains run clear, and flowers smell the 

swt^eter ; 
Tis heaven to be by when her wit is a-flowing, 
Her smiles and bright eyes set my spirits a-glow- 
'ing. 

The mair that I gaze, the deeper I'm wounded, 
Struck dumb wi' amaze, my mind is confounded ; 
I'm a' in a fire, dear maid, to caress ye, 
For a' my aesire is Hay's bonnie las««;p. 



THE BONNIE BRUCKET LASSIE. 

The idea of this song is to me very original : 
the two first lines are all of it that is old. The 
rest of the song, as well as those songs in the 
Museum marked T, are the works of an obscure, 
tippling, but extraordinary body of the name of 
Tytler, commonly known by the name of Bal- 
loon Tytler, from his having projected a balloon : 
A mortal, who, though he drudges about Edin- 
burgh as a common printer, with leaky shoes, a 
sky-lighted hat, and knee-buckles as unlike as 
George-by-the-Grace-of-God, and Solomon-the 
Son-of- David ; yet that same unknown drunken 
mortal is author and compiler of three-fourths 
Elliot's pompous Encyclopedia Britannica, which 
he composed at half a guinea a week ! * 

The bonnie brucket lassie 

She's blue beneath the e'en ; 
She was the fairest lassie 

That danced on the green : 
A lad he loo'd her dearly. 

She did his love return ; 
But he his vows has broken, 

And left her for to mourn. 



" My shape," she says, " was handsome, 

My face was fair and clean ; 
But now I'm bonnie brucket, 

And blue beneath the e'en : 
My eyes were bright and sparkling, 

Before that they turn'd blue ; 
But now they're dull with weeping, 

And a', my love, for you. 

" My person it was comely. 

My shape, they said, was neat ; 
But now I am quite chang'd, 

My stays they winna meet : 
A' night I sleeped soundly. 

My mind was never sad ; 
But now my rest is broken, 

Wi' thinking o' my lad. 

« O could I live in darkness. 
Or hide me in the sea, 



Since my love is unfa'uhful, 

And has forsaken me ! 
No other love 1 suffer'd 

Within my breast to dwel ; 
In nought I have offended. 

But loving him too well.*' 

Her lover heard her monrnitg. 

As by he chanc'd to pass, 
And press'd unto his bosom 

The lovely brucket lass : 
" My dear," he said, " cease grieving, 

Since that your love's sae true. 
My bonnie brucket lassie 

I'll faithful prove to you." 



SAE MERRY AS WE TWA HA'E BEEN 

This song is beautiful. — The chorus in par- 
ticular is truly pathetic. — I never could leara 

any thing of its author. 

A LASS that was laden with care 
Sat heavily under yon thorn ; 
I listen'd awhile for to-hear, 

When thus she began for to mourn : 
Whene'er my dear shepherd was there, 

The birds did melodiously sing. 
And cold nipping winter did wear 
A face that resembled the spring. 
Sae merry as we twa hue been, 
Sae merry as we twa hae been, 
My heart it is like for to break. 
When I think on the days we hae seen. 

Our flocks feeding close by his side. 

He gently pressing my hand, 
I view'd the v>'ide world in its pride, 

And laugh'd at the pomp of command ! 
My dear, he would oft to me say, 

What makes you hard-heai ted to me ? 
Oh ! why do you thus turn away 

From him who is dying for thee? 
Sae merry, Sfc. 

But now he is far from my sight, 

Perhaps a deceiver may prove. 
Which makes me lament day and night, 

That ever I granted my love. 
At eve, when the rest of the folk 

Were merrily seated to spin, 
I set myself under an oak, 

And heavily sighed for him. 
Sae merry, 8fc. 



• Balloon Tytler, is here referred to. 



THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. 

This is another beautiful song of Mr. Crafl^.. 
ford's composition. In the neighbourhood oi 
Traquair, tradition still shews the old " Bush ;" 
which, when I saw it in the year 1787, was 



SONGS. 



117 



■Kimposed of eight or nine ragged birches. The 
Earl of Traquair has planted a clump of trees 
near by, which he calls " The New Bush." 

Hear nie, ye nymphs, and every swain, 

I'll tell how Peggy grieves me ; 
Tho' thus I languish and complain, 

Alas ! she ne'er believes me. 
My vows and sighs, like silent air, 

Unheeded never move her ; 
The bonnie bush aboon Traquair, 

Was where I first did love her. 

That day she smil'd and made me glad, 

No maid seem'd ever kinder ; 
I though,': myself the luckiest lad, 

So swoetly there to find her. 
I try'd to sooth my am'rous flame, 

In words that I thought tender ; 
If more there pass'd, I'm not to blame, 

I meant not to offend her. 

Yet now she scornful flees the plain. 

The fields we then frequented ; 
If e'er we meet, she shews disdain, 

She looks as ne'er acquainted. 
The bonnie bush bloom 'd fair in May, 

Its sweets I'll ay remember ; 
But now her frowns make it decay, 

It fades as in December. 

Ye rural pow'rs, who hear my strains, 

Why thus should Peggy grieve me? 
Oh ! make her partner in my pains, 

Then let her smiles relieve me : 
If not, my love will turn despair. 

My passion no more tender ; 
I'll leave the bush aboon Traquair, 

To lonely wilds I'll wander. 



CROMLET'S LILT. 

" In the latter end of the 16th century, the 
Chishohns were proprietors of the estate of 
Cromlechs (now possessed by the Drummonds). 
The eldest son of that family was very much 
attached to a daughter of Sterling of Ardoch, 
commonly known by the name of Fair Helen 
of Ardoch. 

" At that time the opportunities of meeting 
betwixt the sexes were more rare, consequently 
more sought after than now ; and the Scottish 
ladies, far from priding themselves on extensive 
literature, were thought sufficiently book-learn- 
ed if they could make out the Scriptures in their 
mother tongue. Writing was entirely out of 
the line of female education : At that period 
the most of our young men of family sought a 
fortune, or found a grave, in France. Crom- 
lus, when he went abroad to the war, was o- 
blii^ed to leave the management of his corres- 
pondence with his mistress to a lay broth^i* of 



the monastery of Dumblaia, in the immediate 
neighbourhood of Cromleck, and near Ardoch. 
This man, unfortunately, was deeply sensible of 
Helen's charms. He artfully prepossessed her 
with stories to the disadvantage of Cromlus j 
and by misinterpreting or keeping up ^he let- 
ters and messages intrusted to his ciire, I* en- 
tirely irritated both All connection was broken 
ofl" betwixt them : ' Helen was inconsolable, and 
Cromlus has left behind him, in the ballad call- 
ed Cromlet's Lilt, a proof of the elegance of his 
genius, as well as the steadiness of his love. 

" When the artful monk thought time had 
sufficiently softent! Helen's sorrow, he proposed 
himself as a lover : Helen was obdurate : but 
at last, overcome by the persuasions of her 
brother with whom she lived, and who, having 
a family of thirty-one children, was probably 
very well pleased to get her off his hands, she 
submitted, rather than consented to the cere- 
mony ; but there her compliance ended ; and, 
when forcibly put into bed, she started quite 
frantic from it, screaming out, that after three 
gentle taps on the wainscoat, at the bed head, 
she heard Cromlus's voice, crying, Helen, He- 
len, mind me.* Cromlus. soon after coming 
home, the treachery of the confidant was dis- 
covered, — her marriage disannulled, — and He- 
len became lady Cromlechs." 

N. B. Marg. Murray, mother to these thirty- 
one children, was daughter to Murray of Strewn, 
one ot the seventeen sons of Tullybardine, and 
whose youngest son, commonly called the Tutci 
of Ardoch, died in the year 1715, aged 111 
years. 

Since all thy vows, false maid, 
Are blown to air, 

And my poor heart betray'd 

To sad despair, 

Into some wilderness. 

My grief I will express, 

And thy haid-heartedness, 
O cruel fair. 

Have I not graven our loves 

On every tree 
In yonder spreading groves, 

Tho' false thou he : 
Was not a solemn oath 
Plighted betwixt us both, 
Thou thy faith, I my troth. 

Constant to be ? 

Some gloomy place I'll find, 

Some doleful shade, 

Where neither sun nor wind 

E'er entrance had : 

Into that hollow cave, 

There will 1 sigh and rave, 

Because thou dost behave 

So faithlessly. 



• Remember me. 



i I 



118 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Wild fruit sna'n be my meat, 

I'll drink the spring, 

Cold earth shall be my seat : 
For covering 

I'll have the starry sky 

My head to canopy, 

Until my soul on by 

Shall spread its wing. 

I'll have no funeral fire, 

Nor tears for me : 
No grave do I desire, 

Nor obsequies : 
The courteous Red-breast he 
With leaves will cover me, 
And sing my elegy 

With doleful voice. 

And when a ghost I am, 

I'll visit thee, 

O thou deceitful dame, 

Whose cruelty 

Has kill'd the kindest heart 

That e'er felt Cupid's dart, 

And never can desert 

From loving thee. 



MY DEARIE, IF THOU DIE. 

ANOTHER beautiful song of Crawford's. 

Love never more shall give me pain, 

My fancy's fix'd on thee. 
Nor ever maid my heart shall gain, 

My Peggy, if thou die. 
Thy beauty doth such pleasure give. 

Thy love's so true to me. 
Without thee I can never live, 

My de.irie, if thou die. 

If fate shall tear thee from my breast, 

How shall I lonely stray ! 
In dreaiy dreams the night I'll waste, 

In sighs, the silent day. 
I ne'er can so much virtue find, 

Nor such perfection see ; 
Then I'll renounce all woman kind, 

My Peggy, after thee. 

No new-blown beauty fires my heart, 

With Cupid's raving rage ; 
But thine, which can such sweets impartj 

Must all the world engage. 
'Twas this, that like the morning sun, 

Gave joy and life to me ; 
And when its destin'd day is done, 

With Peggy let me die. 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love. 

And in such pleasure share ; 
You who its faithful flames approve. 

With pity view the fair : 



Restore my Pcgg)''? wonted charms. 
Those charms so dear to me ! 

Oh ! never rob them from these arau| 
I'm lost if Peggy die. 



SHE ROSE AND LET ME IN. 

The old set of this song, which is still to be , 
found in printed collections, is much prettier 
than this ; but somebody, I believe it was Ram- 
say, took it into his head to clear it of sora« 
seeming indelicacies, and made it at once more 
chaste and more dull. 

The night her silent sable wore, 

And gloomy were the skies ; 
Of glitt'ring stars appear'd no more 

Than those in Nelly's eyes. 
When at her father's yate I knock'd, 

Where I had often been, 
She, shrouded only with her smock. 

Arose and loot me in. 

Fast lock'd within her close embrace, 

She trembling stood asham'd ; 
Her swelling breast, and glowing face, 

And ev'ry touch inflam'd. 
My eager passion I obey'd, 

Resolv'd the fort to win ; 
And her fond heart was soon betray'd 

To yield and let me in. 

Then, then, beyond expressing. 

Transporting was the joy ; 
I knew no greater blessing, 

So bless'd a man was I. 
And she, all ravish'd with delight. 

Bid me oft come again ; 
And kindly vow'd, that ev'ry night 

She'd rise and let me in. 

But ah ! at last she prov'd with bairot 

And sighing sat and dull, 
And I that was as much concern'd, 

Look'd e'en just like a fool. 
Her lovely eyes with tears ran o'er. 

Repenting her rash sin : 
She sigh'd, and curs'd the fatal hour 

That e'er she loot me in. 

But who cou'd cruelly deceive, 

Or from such beauty part ? 
I lov'd her so, I could not leave 

The charmer of my heart ; 
But wedded, and conceal'd our crime 

Thus all was well again, 
And now she thanks the happy time 

That e'er she loot me in. 



SONGS. 



19 



GO TO THE EWE-BUGHTS, MARION. 

I AM not sure if this old and charming air be 
of the South, as is commonly said, or of the 
North of Scotland. — There is a song apparently 
as ancient as Ewe-BughU, Marion, which 
B'ngs to the same tune, and is evidently of the 
North. — It begins thus : — 

The Lord o' Gordon had three dochters, 

Mary, Marget, and Jean, 
They wad na stay at bonnie Castle Gordon, 

But awa to Aberdeen. 



Will ye go to the ewe-bughts, Marion, 

And wear in the sheep wi' me ; 
The sun shines sweet, my Marion, 

But nae haff sae sweet as thee. 
O Marion's a bonny lass, 

And the blyth blinks in her e'e ; 
And fain wad I many Marion, 

Gin Marion wad marry me. 

There's gowd in your garters, Marion, 

And silk on your white hause-bane ; 
Fu' fain wad I kiss my Marion, 

At e'en when I come hame. 
There's braw lads in Earnslaw, Mai'ion, 

Wha gape, and glower with their e'e, 
At kirk when they see my Marion ; 

But nane of them lo'es like me. 

I've nine milk-ewes, my Marion, 

A cow and a brawny quey, 
I'll gie them a' to my Marion, 

Just on her bridal-day : 
And ye's get a green sey apron, 

And waistcoat of the London brown, 
And wow ! but ye will be vap'ring, 

Whene'er ye gang to the town. 

I'm young and stout, my Marion ; 

Nane dance like me on the green j 
And gin ye forsake me, Marion, 

I'll e'en draw up wi' Jean : 
Sae put on your pearlins, Marion, 

And kyrtle of the cramasie ; 
\nd soon as my chin has nae hair on, 

I shall come west, and see ye.* 



LEWIS GORDON.f 

This air is a proof how one of our Scots 
tunes comes to be composed out of another. I 



♦ This is marked in the Tea Table Miscellany as an 
old song with additions. — Ed. 

■f " Lord Lewis Gordon, younger brother to the 
then Duke of Gordon, commanded a detachment for 
the ChevaUer, and acquitted himself with great gal- 
lantry and judgment. He died in 1754." 



OH ONO CHRIO. 

Dr. Black lock informed me that this song 
was composed on the infamous massacre A 
Glencoe. 

Oh ! was not I a weary wight ! 

Oh ! ono chri, oh ! ono chri—— 
Maid, wife, and widow, in one night,! 
When in my soft and yielding arms, 
O ! when most I thought him free from harms, 
Even at the dead time of the night. 
They broke my bower, and slew my knight. 
With ae lock of his jet-black hair, 
I'll tie my heart for evermair ; 
Nae sly-tongued youth, or flatt'rmg swain, 
Shall e'er untye this knot again ; 
Thine still, dear youth, that heart shall be^ 
Nor pant fur aught, save heaven and thee. 
(The chorus rei)eated at tht end of each line). 



have one of the earliest copies of the song, and j 
it has prefixed, I 

Tune of Tarry Woo. — 

Of which tune, a different set has insensibly 
varied into a different air. — To a Scots critic, 
the pathos of the line, 

" Tho' liis back be at the wa','* 

— must be very striking It needs not a Jaco 

bite prejudice t- be affected with this song. The 
supposed authoi if " Lewis Gordon''' was a Mr 
Geddes, priest, at Shenval, in the Ainzie. 

Oh ! send Lewie Gordon hame. 
And the lad I winna name ; 
Tho' his back be at the wa'. 
Here's to him that's far awa ! 

Oh hnn ! my Highland man. 

Oh, my honny Highland man; 

Weel would I my true-love ken, 

Amang ten thousand Highland men* 

Oh ! to see his tartan-trews, 
Bonnet blue, and laigh-heel'd shoes, 
Philabeg aboon his knee ; 
That's the lad that I'll gang wi' ! 
Oh hon, 8fc. 

The princely youth that I do mean, 
Is fitted for to be a king : 
On his breast he wears a star ; 
You'd tak him for the God of War 
Oh hon, 8fC, 

Oh to see this Princely One, 
Seated on a royal throne ! 
Disasters a' vrould disappear, 
Then begins the Jub'lee year ! 

Oh hon, S^c. 



120 BURNS WORKS. 

THE BEDS OF SWEET ROSES. 



This song, as far as I know, for the first 
time appears here in print. — When I was a boy, 
it was a very popular song in Ayrshire. I re- 
member to have heard those fanatics, the Buch- 
anites, sing some of their nonsensical rhymes, 
which they dignify with the name of It^mns, to 
this air Burns. 

As I was a walking 

One morning in May, 
The small birds sang sweetly, 

The flowers were bloomln' gay, 
Oh theie I met my true love, 

As fresh as davvnin' day, 
Down amoBg the beds of sweet roses. 

Fu' white was hpr barefoot, 

New bathed in the dew ; 
Whiter was her white hand. 

Her een were bonnie blue; 
\nd kind were her whispers, 

And sweet was her moo, 
Down among the beds o' sweet roses. 

My father and my mother, 

I wot they told me true, 
That I liked ill to thrash, 

And I like worse to plough ; 
But I vow the maidens like me, 

For 1 keud the way to woo, 
Down among the beds of sweet roses. 



CORN RIGS ARE BONNY. 

My Patie is a lover gay, 

His mind is never muddy, 
His breath is sweeter than new hay, 

His face is fair and ruddy. 
His shape is handsome, middle size ; 

He's stately in his wawking ; 
The shining of his een surprise ; 

*Tis heaven to hear him tawking. 

Last night I met him on a bawk, 

WTiere yellow corn was growing, 
There mony a kindly word he spake, 

That set my heart a-glowing. 
He kiss'd, and vow'd he wad be mine. 

And loo'd me best of ony ; 
That gars me like to sing sinsyne, 

O corn ricjs are honny. 

jct maidens of a silly mind 

Refuse what maist they're wanting, 
Since we for yielding are design'd, 

We chastely should be granting ; 
Then I'll comply and marry Pate, 

And syne my cockernony 
He's free to touzle air or late, 

Wbere corn rigs are bonny. 



All the old words that ever I could meet with 
to this air were the following, which seem to 
have been an old chorus. 

O corn rigs and rye rigs, 

O corn rigs are bonnie ; 
And where'er you meet a bonnie lass, 

Preen up her cockernoay. 



WAUKIN O' THE FAULD. 

There are two stanzas still suag to this lune, 
which I take to be the original song whence 
Ramsay composed his beautiful song of tbft 
njsme in the Gentle Shepherd. — It begins, 

will ye speak at our town. 

As ye come frae the fauld, &c. 

I regret that, as in many of our old songs, the 
delicacy of this old fi-agment is not equal to it« 
wit and humour. 

My Peggy is a young thing, 
Just enter'd in her teens, 
Fair as the day, and sweet as May, 
Fair as the day, and always gay. 
My Peggy is a young thing, 

And I'm not very auld, 
Yet well I like to meet her at 
The wauking of the fauld. 

My Peggy speaks sae sweetly. 
Whene'er we meet alane, 

1 wish nae mair to lay my care, 
I wish nae mair of a' that's rare, 

My Peggy speaks sae sweetly. 
To a' the lave I'm cauld ; 

But she gars a' my spirits glow, 
At wauking of the fauld. 

My Peggy smiles sae kindly, 
Whene'er I whisper love. 
That I look down on a' the town. 
That I look 'iown upon a crown, 
My Peggy smiles sae kindly, 

It makes me blythe and bauld, 
And naething gi'es me sic delight, 
As wauking of the fauld. 



My Peggy sings sae saftly, 

Wlien on my pipe 1 play ; 
By a* the rest it is confest, 
3y a' the rest, that she sings best. 
My Peggy sings sae saftly, 

And in her sangs are tald, 

With innocence, the wale of 

At wauking of the fauJ i. 



SONGS. 



121 



MAGGIE LAUDER. 

This old song, so pregnant with Scottish 
naivietS and energy, is much relished by all 
ranks, notwithstanding its broad wit and pal- 
pable allusions. — Its language is a precious mo- 
del of imitation ; sly, sprightly, and forcibly ex- 
pressive. — Maggie's tongue wags out the nick- 
names of Rob the Piper with all the careless 
lightsomeness of unrestrained gaiety. 

VVha wad na be in love 

Wi' bonny Maggie Lauder ? 

A piper met her gaun to Fife, 

And speir'd what was't they ca'd her ; — 

Right scornfully she answer'd him, 

Begone, you hallanshaker ! 

Jog on your gate, you bladderskate, 

My name is IMaggie Lauder. 

Maggie, quo' he, and by my bags, 
I'm fidgin' fain to see thee ; 
Sit down by me, my bonny bird, 
In troth I winna steer thee : 
For I'm a piper to my trade. 
My riame is Rob the Ranter ; 
The lasses loup as they were daft, 
When I blaw up ray chanter. 

Piper, quo' Meg, hae ye your bags? 

Or is your drone in order ? 

If ye be Rob, I've heard o' you, 

Live you upo' the border ? 

The lasses a', baith far and near. 

Have heard o' Rob the Ranter ; 

I'll shake my foot wi' right gude will, 

Gif you'll blaw up your chanter. 

Then to his bags he flew wi' speed, 

About the drone he twisted ; 

Meg up and wallop'd o'er the green, 

For brawly could she frisk it. 

VVeel done ! quo' he — play .ip ! quo' she ; 

Weel bobb'd ! quo' Rob the Ranter ; 

'Tis worth my while to play indeed, 

When I hae sic a dancer. 

Weel hae ye play'd your part, quo' Meg, 
Your cheeks are like the crimson ; 
There's nane in Scotland plays sae weel, 
Since we lost Habbie Simpson. 
I've liv'd in Fife, baith maid and v/ife, 
These ten years and a quarter ; 
Gin' ye should come to Enster Fair, 
Speir ye for Maggie Lauder. 



TRANENT MUIR. 
Tune — " Killierankie." 

" Tranent-IVIuir" was composed by a Mr. 
Skirvin, a very worthy respectable farmer, near 
Haddington. I have heavd the anecdote often, 



that Lieutenant Smith, whom he mentions in 
the ninth stanza, came to Haddiugtvm after the 
publication of the song, and sent a challenge to 
Skirvin to meet him at Haddington, and an- 
swer for the unworthy manner in which he had 
noticed him in his song. " Gang awa back," 
said the honest farmer, " and tell Mr. Smith 
that I hae na leisure to come to Haddington ; 
but tell him to come here ; and I'll tak a look 
o' him ; and if 1 think I'm fit to fecht him, I'L 
fecht him ; and if no — I'll do as he did, — FU 
rin awa." — 



The Chevalier, being void of fear, 

Did march up Birsle brae, man, 
And thro' Tranent, e'er he did stent, 

As fast as he could gae, man : 
While General Cope did taunt and mock, 

Wi' mony a loud huzza, man ; 
But e'er next morn proclaim'd the cock, 

We heard another craw, man. 

The brave I'^cniel, as I heard tell, 

Led Camerons on in clouds, man ; 
The morning fair, and clear the air. 

They loos'd with devilish thuds, man : 
Down guns they threw, and swords they drew 

And soon did chace them aff, man ; 
On Seaton-Crafts they buft their chafts, 

And gart them rin like daft, man. 

The bluff dragoons swore blood and 'oons, 

They'd make the rebels run, man ; 
And yet they flee when them they see, 

And winna fire a gun, man : 
They turn'd their back, the foot they brake, 

Such teri-or seiz'd them a', man ; 
Some wet their cheeks, some fyl'd their breek% 

And some for fear did fa', mac. 

The volunteers prick'd up their ears. 

And vow gin they were crouse, man ; 
But when the bairns saw't turn to earn'at, 

They were not worth a louse, man ; 
Maist feck gade hame ; O fy for shame ! 

They'd better stay'd awa', man. 
Than wi' cockade to make parade. 

And do nae good at a', man. 

Menteith the great,* when hersell sh — if 

Uu'wares did ding him o'er, man j 
Yet wad nae stand to bear a hand, 

But aff fou fast did scour, man j 
O'er Soutra hill, e'er he stood stilly 

Before be tasted meat, man : 
Troth he may brag of his swift nag, 

That bare him aff sae fleet, man. 



* The minister of Longformacus, a volunteer ; who, 

happening to come the night before the battle, upon a 
Highland gelding, easing nature at i'reston,- threw hira 
over, and carried his gun as a trophy to Cope's camp. 



122 



BURNS' WORKS. 



And Simpson • keen, to clear tlae een 

Of rebels far in wrang, man, 
Did never strive wi' pistols live, 

But g;dlop'd with the thrang, man : 
He turn'd his back, and in a crack 

Was cleanly out of sight, man ; 
And thought it best ; it was nae jest 

Wi' Highlanders to fight, man. 

'Mangst a' the gang nane bade the bang 

But twa, and ane was tane, man ; 
For Campbell rade, but Myrief staid, 

And sair he paid the kain,j: man ; 
Fell skelps he got, was war than shot 

Frae the sharp-edg'd claymore, man ; 
Frae many a spout came running out 

His reeking-het red gore, man. 

But Gard'ner {( brave did still behave 

Like to a hero bright, man ; 
His courage true, like him were few, 

That still despised flight, man ; 
For king and laws, and country's cause, 

In honour's bed he lay, man ; 
His life, but not his courage, fled, 

While he had breath to draw, man. 

And Major Bowie, that worthy soul, 

Was brought down to the ground, man 
His horse being shot, it was his lot 

For to get mony a wound, man : 
Lieutenant Smith, of Irish birth, 

Frae whom he call'd for aid, man, 
Being full of dread, lap o'er his head, 

And wadna be gainsaid, man. 

He made sic haste, sae spur'd his beast, 

'Twas little there he saw, man ; 
To Berwick rade, and safely said, 

The Scots were rebels a', man ; 
But let that end, for well 'tis kend 

His use and wont to lie, man ; 
The Teague is naught, he never faught. 

When he had room to flee, man. 



• Another volunteer Presbyterian minister, who 
said he would convince tlie rebels of their error by the 
dint of his pistols; havinf», for that i>ur;)Ose, two in 
his pockets, two in his holsters, and one in his belt. 

t Mr. Myrie was a student of physic, from Jamaica ; 
he entered as a volunteer in Cojie's army, and was 
miserably mangled by the broadsword. 

J i. e. He suffered severely in the cause. 

II James Gardiner, Colonel of a reginrient of horse. 
This gentleman's conduct, however celebrated, does 
not seem to have proceeded so much from the gene- 
rous ardour of a noble and heroic mind, as from a 
spirit of religious enthusiasm, and a bigoted reliance 
on the Presbyterian doctrine of predestination, which 
rendered it a matter of perfect indifference whether he 
left the field or remained in it. Being deserted by his 
troop, he was killed by a Highlander, with aLochaber 
axe. 

Colonel Gardiner having, when a gay young man, 
at Paris, made an assignation with a lady, was, as he 
pretended, rsot only deterred from keeping his ap- 
pointment, but thoroughly leclaimed from all such 
thoughts in future, by an apparition. See his Life by 
Doddridge. 



And Caddell drest, amang the rest, 

With gun and good claymore, man, 
On gelding grey he rode that way, 

With pistols set before, man ; 
The cause was good, he'd spend his bloodf 

Before that he would yield, man ; 
But the night before he left the cor, 

And never fac'd the field, man. 

But gallant Roger, like a soger. 

Stood and bravely fought, man ; 
I'm wie to tell, at last he fell, 

But mae down wi' him brought, mao : 
At point of death, wi' his last breath, 

(Some standing round in ring, man), 
Ou's back lying flat, he wav'd his hat, 

And cry'd, God save the king, man. 

Some Highland rogues, like hungry dogs- 
Neglecting to pursue, man, 

About they fac'd, and in great haste 
Upon the booty flew, man ; 

And they, as gain, for all their pain, 
Are deck'd wi spoils of war, man ; 

Fow bald can tell how her nainsell 
Was ne'er sae pra before, man. 

'At the thorn-tree, which you may see 

Bewest the meadow-mill, man ; 
There m.ony slain lay on the plain, 

The clans pursuing still, man. 
Sic unco' hacks, and deadly whacks, 

I never saw the like, man ; 
Lost hands and heads cost them their dead% 

That fell near Preston-dyke, man. 

That afternoon, when a' was done, 

I gacd to see the fray, man ; 
But ha 3 I wist what after past, 

I'd better staid away, man : 
On Seaton sands, wi' nimble hands, 

They pick'd my pockets bare, man; 
But I wish ne'er to drie sic fear, 

For a' the sum and mair, man. 



STREPHON AND LYDIA. 

Tune — " The Gordon's had the Guiding o't." 

The following account of this song I Ijul 
from Dr. Blacklock. 

The Strephon and Lydia mentioned in the% 
song were perhaps the loveliest couple of their 
time. The gentleman was commonly known 
by the name of Beau Gibson. The lady was 
the Gentle Jean, celebrated somewhere in Mr. 
Hamilton of Bangour's poems Flaving fre- 
quently met at public places, they had formed 
a reciprocal attachment, which their frienda 
thought dangerous, as their resources were by 
no means adequate to their tastes and habits of 
life. To elude the bad consequences of such a 
connection, Strephon was sent abroad with 9 



SONGS. 



l?3 



coHiinission, and perished in Admiral Vernon's 
expedition to Carthagena. 

The author of the song was William Wallace, 
Esq. of Cairnhill, in Ayrshire. — Burns. 

All lovely on the sultry beach, 

Expiring Strephon lay, 
No hand the cordial draught to reach, 

Nor chear the gloomy way. 
Ill-fated youth ! no parent nigh, 

To catch thy fleeting breath, 
No bride, to fix thy swimming eye, 

Or smooth the face of death. 

Far distant from the mournful scene, 

Thy parent? sit at ease, 
Thy Lydia rifles all the plain. 

And all the spring to please. 
Ill-fated youth ! by fault of friend. 

Not force of foe depress'd, 
'"'hou fall'st, alas ! thyself, thy kind, 

Thy country, unredress'd ' 



I'M O'ER YOUNG TO MARRY YET. 

The chorus of this song is old. — The rest ->f 
„, such as it is, is mine. — Burns. 

I'm o'er young, I'm o'er young, 
I'm o'er young to marry yet ; 
I'm o'er young, 'twad be a sin 
To take me frae my mammy yet. 

There is a stray, characteristic verse, which 
ought to be restored. 

My minnie coft me a new gown. 
The kirk maun hae the gracing o't ; 

Ware I to lie wi' you, kind Sir, 
I'm feared ye'd spoil the lacing o't. 
/'»i o^er young, &c. 



MY JO, JANET. 

Johnson, the publisher, with a foolish deli- 
cacy, refused to insert the last stanza of this 
aumorous ballad. — Burns. 

Sweet Sir, for your courtesie, 

When ye come by the Sass then. 
For the luve ye bear to me. 

Buy me a keeking-glass, then. — . 
Keek into the drmv-well, 

Janet, Janet ; 
And there yell see your bonny sell, 
My Jo, Janet. 

Keeking in the draw-well clear, 
What if I should fa' in. 



Syne a' my kin will say and sweaTj 

I drown'd mysell for sin. — 
Hand the better be the brae, 

Janet, Janet, 
Haud the better be the brae. 

My Jo, Janet. 

Good Sir, for your courtesie, 

Ck)ming through Aberdeen, then« 
For the luve ye bear to me, 

Buy me a pair of sheen, then.— 
Clout the auld, the new are dear, 

Janet, Janet ; 
Ae pair may gain ye }i(£f a year. 
My Jo, Janet. 

But what if dancing on the green, 

And skipping like a maukin. 
If they should see my clouted shoon, 

Of me they will be taukin'. — 
Dance ay laigh, and late at e'en, 

Janet, Janet ; 
Syne a' their fauts will no be seen, 
My Jo, Janet. 

Kind Sir, for your courtesie. 

When ye gae to the Cross, then, 
For the luve ye bear to me, 

Buy me a pacing-horse, then. — 

Pace upo' your spinning-wheel, 

Janet, Janet ; 

Pace upo' your spinning-wheel. 

My Jo, Janet. 

My spinning-wheel is auld and stiff, 

The rock o't winna stand, Sir, 
To keep the temper-pin in tiff, 

Employs right aft my hand, Sir— 
Mak the best o't that ye can, 

Janet, Janet; 
Sut like it nevtt wale a man. 

My Jo, Janet. 



GUDE YILL COMES, AND GUDE 
YILL GOES. 

This song sings to the tune called The boi. 
torn of the punch bowl, of which a very good 
copy may be found in M' Gibbons CoUec'tion.^ 
Burns. 

Tune—" The Happy Farmer." 

O gude yill comes, and gude yill goes, 
Gude yill gars me sell my hose. 
Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon, 
For gude yill keeps my heart aboon. 

I HAD sax owsen in a pleugh, 
And they drew teugh and weel eneugh ; 
I drank them a' ane by ane. 
For gude yill keeps my heart aboon. 
Gude yill, §-c. 

I had forty shillin in a clout, 
Gude yill gart me pyke them out ; 



124 



BURNS' WORKS. 



That gear should moule I thought a sin, 
Gude yill keeps my heart aboon. 
Gude yill, 8fc. 

The meikle pot upon my back, 
Uuto the yill-house I did pack ; 
It melted a' wi' the heat o' the moon, 
Gude yill keeps my heart aboon. 
Gude i/U, Sfc. 

Gude yill hauds me bare and busy, 
Gars me moop wi' the servant hizzie. 
Stand in the kirk when I hae done, 
Gude yill keeps my heart aboon.* 
Gude yill, &^c. 

I wish their fa' may be a gallows, 
Winna gie gude yill to gude fellows. 
And keep a soup 'till the afternoon, 
Gude yill keeps my heart aboon. 

O yude yill comes, and gude yill goes, 
Gude yill gars me sell my hose, 
Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon, 
Gude yill keeps my heart aboon. 



WERE NA MY HEART LIGHT 1 WAD 
DIE. 

Lord Hailes, in the notes to his collection of 
ancient Scots poems, says that this song was the 
composition of a Lady Grissel Baillie, daughter 
of the first Earl of Marchniont, and wife of 
George Baillie, of Jerviswood. — Burns. 

There was anes a May, and she loo'd na men, 
She biggit 'rer bonny bow'r down in yon glen ; 
But now she cries dool ! and a well-a-day ! 
Come down the green gate, and come here away. 
£ut now she cries, 8fc. 

When bonny young Johny came o'er the sea, 
He said he saw naithing sae lovely as me ; 
He hecht me baith rings and mony braw thiugs ; 
And were na my heart light I wad die. 
Me hecht me, Sj'c. 

He had a wee titty that loo d na me. 

Because I was twice as bonny as she ; 

She rais'd such a pother 'twixt him and his mo- 
ther, 

That were na my heart light, I wad die. 
She rais'd, 8fc. 

The day it was set, and the bridal to be, 
The wife took a dwam, and lay down to die ; 
She raain'd and she grain'd out of dolour and 

pain, 
Till he vow'd he never wad see me again. 

She main'd Sj-c. 



His kin was for ane of a higher degree, 
Said, What had he to do with the like of me ? 
Albeit I was bonny, I was na for Johny : 
And were na my heart light, I wad die. 
Albeit I wa:i, §-0. 

They said, I had neither cow nor caflF, 
Nor dribbles of drink rins throw the draff, 
Nor pickles of meal rins throw the mill-ee; 
And were na my heart light, I wad die., 
JVor pickles of, Sfc. 

His titty she was baith wylie and slee, 
She spy'd me as I came o'er the lee ; 
And then she ran in and made a loud din, 
Believe your ain een, an ye trow na me. 
And then she, 8fc. 

His bonnet stood ay fou round on his brow ; 
His auld ane looks ay as well as some's new j 
But now he lets't wear ony gate it will hing, 
And casts himself dowie upon the corn-bing. 
Hut now he, 8fc. 

And now he gaes ' dandering' about the dykes 
And a' he dow do is to hund the tykes : 
The live-lang night he ne'er steeks his ee, 
And were na my heait light, I wad die. 
The' live-lang, §-c. 

Were I young for thee, as I hae been, 
We shou'd hae been galloping down on yon green, 
And linking it on the lily-white lee ; 
And wow gin I were but young for thee ! 
And linking 8fc. 



* The hand of Bums is visible here. The Ist and 
4th verses only are tiie original ones. 



MARY SCOTT, THE FLOWER OF 
YARROW. 

Mr. Robertson, in his statistical account of 
the palish of Selkirk, says, that Mary Scott, the 
Flower of Yarrow, was descended from the Dry 
hope, and married into the Harden family. Her 
daughter was married to a predecessor of the 
present Sir Francis Elliot of Stobbs, and of the 
late Lord Heathtield. 

There is a circumstance in their contract cf 
marriage that merits attention, as it strongly 

marks the predatory spiiit of the times The 

father-in-law agrees to keep his daughter, for 
some time after the marriage ; for which the 
son-in-law binds himself to give him the profits 
of the first Michaelmas-moon. — Burns. 

Happy's the love which meets return. 
When in soft flames souls equal burn ; 
But words are wanting to discover 
The torments of a hopeless lover. 
Ye registers of heav'n, relate. 
If looking o'er the rolls of fate, 
Did you thei'e see me mark'd to marrow 
Mary Scott the flower of Yarrow ? 



,'J 



SONGS. 



12^ 



Ah no ! her form's too heav'nly fair, 
Her love the gods above must share ; 
Wliile mortals with despair explore her, 
And at distance due adore her, 
O lovely maid ! my doubts beguile, 
Revive and bless me with a smile : 
Alas ! if not, you'll soon debar a 
Sighing swain the banks of Yarrow 

Be hush, ye fears, I'll not despair ; 
My Mary's tender as she's fair ; 
Then I'll go tell her all mine anguish, 
She is too good to let me languish : 
With success crown'd, I'll not envy 
The folks who dwell above the sky ; 
When Mary Scott's become my marrow, 
We'll make a paradise in Yarrow. 



THE HIGHLAND QUEEN. 

The Highland Queen, music and poetry, was 
composed by a Mr. M'Vicar, purser of the Sol- 
bay man of war. — This I had from Dr. Black- 
lock. — Burns. 

Tune—" The Highland Queen." 

No more my song shall be, ye swains. 
Of purling streams or flowrie plains : 
More pleasing beauties now inspire, 
And Pliffibus deigns the warbling lyre. 

Divinely aided, thus I mean 
To celebrate, to celebrate. 

To celebrate my Highland Queen. 

In her sweet innocence you'll find 
With freedom, truth and virtue join'd : 
Strict honour fills her spotless soul. 
And gives a lustre to the whole. 

A matchless shape and lovely mein 
All centre in, all centre in, 

All centre in my Highland Queen. 

No soi'did wish or trifling joy 
Her settled calm of mind destroy : 
From pride and affectation free, 
Alike she smiles on you and me. 

The brightest nymph that trips the green 
I do pronounce, I do pronounce, 

I do pronounce my Highland Queen. 

How blest the youth, whose gentle fate 
Has destined to so fair a mate. 
With all those wondrous gifts in store. 
To which each coming day brings more. 

No man more happy can be seen 
Possessing thee, possessing thee, 

Possessing thee, my Highland Queen. 



THE MUCKIN' O' JEORDIE'S BYRE. 

The chorus of this song is old. — The rest i« 
the work of Balloon Tytler.* — Burns. 

T^ne — " The Muekin' o' Geordie's Byre." 

The muekin' o' Geordie's byre. 

And the shool an' the graip sae clean, 
Has gar'd me weet my cheeks, 
And greet wi' baith my eeu. 
It ivas ne'er my fatlitrs will. 
Nor yet my mither's desire, 
That e'er I should fyle my fingers 
Wi muckiri' o' Geordie's byre. 

The mouse is a merry beast, 

The moudiwort wants the een, 
But the warld shall ne'er get wit, 
Sae merry as we liae been. 

It uias ne'er my father's will. 
Nor yet my mithers desire, 
That e'er I shoidd fyle my fingers 
WV muekin* o' Geordie's byre. 



MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL , 

ALSO KNOWN AS 

MACPHERSON'S RANT. 

He was a daring robber in the beginning of 
this (eighteenth) century — was condemned to 
be hanged at Inverness. He is said, when un- 
der sentence of death, to have composed this 
tune, which he called his own Lament, or Fare- 
well. 

Gow has published a variation of this fine 
tune, as his own composition, which he calls 
" The Princess Augusta." — Burns. 

I've spent my time in rioting. 

Debauch 'd my health and strength : 
I've pdlaged, plundered, murdered, 

But now, alas ! at length 
I'm brought to punishment direct • 

Pale (!eath draws near to me ; 
This end I never did project 

To hang upon a tree. 

To hang upon a tree, a tree. 

That cursed unhappy death ; 
Like to a wolf ro worried be, 

And choaked in the breath : 
My very heart would surely break 

When this I think upon, 
Did not my courage singular 

Bid pensive thoughts begone. 



* A singularly learned but unhappy person. He 
lived at too early a stage of the world : before there 
was toleration in IBritain, which he was obliged to quit 
(1793) because of his democratieal writings: when he 
took refuge at Salem as a newspaj)er editor. He also 
lived before there were Temperance Societies any 
j where. 



126 



BURNS WORKS. 



No man on earth, tnat draweth breath. 

More courage had than I : 
I dared my foes unto their face, 

And would not from them fly. 
This grandeur stout, I did keep out, 

Like Hector, manfully : 
Then wonder one like me so stout 

Should hang upon a trie. 

The Egyptian band I did command, 

With courage more by far, 
Than ever did a general 

His soldiers in the war. 
Being feared by all, both great and small, 

I liv'd most joyfullie : 
Oh, curse upon this fate o' mine, 

To hang upon a tree. 

As for my life I do not care, 

If justice would take place, 
And bring my fellow-plunderers 

Unto the same disgrace : 
But Peter Brown, that notour loon, 

Escaped and was made free ; 
Oh, curse upon this fate o' mine, 

To hang upon a tree. 

Both law and justice buried are, 

And fraud and guile succeed ; 
The guilty pass unpunished, 

If money intercede. 
The Laird o' Graunt, that Highland Saunt, 

His mighty majestic. 
He pleads the cause of Peter Brown, 

And lets Macphersou die. 

The destiny of my life contrived, 

By those whom I obliged, 
Rewarded me much ill for good, 

And left me no refuge : 
But Braco Duff, in rage enough, 

He first laid hands on me ; 
And if that death would not prevent, 

Avenged would I be. 

As for my life, it is but short, 

When I shall be no more ; 
To part with life, I am content, 

As any heretofore. 
Therefore, good people all, take heed, 

This warning take by me — 
According to the lives you lead. 

Rewarded you shall be.» 



UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. 

The chorus of this is old ; the two stanzas 
are mine. 



• Burns' own set of the Lament, appears liker the 
natural effusions of the high-spirited criminal, than 
".his homily 



Up in the morning's no for me. 

Up in the jiwrning early ; 
When a the hills are covered wV snaw, 

Fm sure ifs winter fairly. 

Cold blaws the wind frae east to west, 

The drift is driving sairly ; 
Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

Burns. 



UP IN THE MORNING EARL? 

BY JOHN HAMILTON. 

Cauld blaws the wind frae north to soutn» 

The drift is driving sairly, 
The sheep are courin' in the heuch : 

O, sirs, its winter fairly. 
Now up in the mornin's no for me, 

Up in the mornin' early ; 
I'd rather gae supperless to my bed 

Than rise in the mornin' early. 

Loud roars the blast amang the woods. 

And tirls the branches barely ; 
On hill and house hear how it thuds, 

The frost is nipping sairly. 
Now up in the mornin's no for me, 

Up in the mornin' early ; 
To sit a' nicht wad better agree 

Than rise in the mornin' early. 

The sun peeps ower yon southland hills 

Like ony timorous carlie. 
Just blinks a wee, then sinks again. 

And that we find severely. 
Now up in the mornin's no for me. 

Up in in the mornin' early ; 
When snaw blaws in at the chimly cheek, 

Wha'd rise in the mornin* early. 

Nae linties lilt on hedge or bush ; 

Poor things they suffer sairly, 
In cauldrife quarters a' the night, 

A' day they feed but sparely. 
Now up in the mornin's no for me. 

Up in the mornin' early ; 
A pennyless purse I wad rather dree. 

Than rise in the mornin' early. 

A cozie house and canty wife, 

Aye keep a body cheerly ; 
And pantries stou'd wi' meat and drinky 

They answer unco rarely. 
But up in the mornin's no for me. 

Up in the mornin' early ; 
The gowan maun glint on bank and brae^ 

When I rise in the mornin' early 



SONGS 



127 



GAL A. WATER. 

I HAVE heai-d a concluding verse, sung to 
these words — it is, 

An' ay she came at e'enia fa*, 

Amang the yellow broom, sae eerie, 

To seek the snood o' silk she tint ; — 

She fan na it, but gat her dearie. — Burns. 

The original song of Gala-water was thus re- 
cited by a I'esident in that very pastoral district. 

BoNNiK lass of Gala-water ; 

Braw, braw lass of Gala-water ! 
I would wade the stream sae deep, 

For yen braw lass of Gala-water. 

Braw, braw lads of Gala-water ; 

O, braw lads of Gala-water ! 
I'll kilt my coat abocm my knee, 

And follow my love thro' the water. 

Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow, 
Sae bonnie blue her een, my dearie ; 

Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou', 
I often kiss her till I'm wearie. 

O'er yon bank, and o'er yon brae. 
O'er yon moss amang the heather ; 

I'll kilt my coat aboon my knee, 
And follow my love thro* the water 

Dowc amang the broom, the broom, 
Down amang the broom, my dearie ; 

The lassie lost her silken snood, 

That gart her greet till she was wearie. 



DUMBARTON DRUMS. 

This is the last of the West Highland airs ; 
and from it, over the whole tract of country to 
the confines of Tweedside, there is hardly a 
tune or song that one can say has taken its ori- 
gin from any place or transaction in that part of 
Scotland. — The oldest Ayrshire reel, is Steiv- 
arton Lasses, which was made by the father of 
the present Sir Walter Montgomery Cunning- 
ham, alias Lord Lyle ; since which period there 
has indeed been local music in that country in 
great plenty. — Johnie Faa is the only old song 
which I could ever trace as belonging to the ex- 
tensive county of Ayr. — Burns. 

The poet has fallen under a mistake here : — 
the drums here celebrated were not those of the 
town, or garrison of Dumbarton ; but of the 
regiment commanded by Lord Dumbarton — a 
cavalier of the house of Douglas — who signalized 
himself on the Jacobite side in 16S5. — The old 
song was as follows : — 

Dumbarton's drums beat bonny, O, 
When thev mind me of my dear Johnie, O. 



How happy am I, 

When my soldier is by. 
While he kisses and blesses his Annie, O ! 
'Tis a soldier alone can delight me, O, 
For his graceful looks do invite me, O : 

While guarded in his arms, 

I'll fear no war's alarms, 
Neither danger nor death shall e'er fright me, O 

My love is a handsome laddie, O, 
Genteel, but ne'er foppish nor gaudy, O : 

Tho' commissions are dear, 

Yet I'll buy him one this year ; 
For he shall serve no longer a cadie, O. 
A soldier has honour and bravery, O, 
Unacquainted with rogues and their knavery, Ol 

He minds no other thing 

But the ladies or the king ; 
For ev'ry other care is but slavery, O. 

Then I'll be the captain's lady, O ; 
Farewell ail my friends and my daddy, O : 

I'll wait no more at home. 

But I'll follow with the drum. 
And whene'er that beats, I'll be ready, O. 
Dumbarton's drums sound bonny, O, 
They are sprightly like my dear Johnie, O : 

How happy shall I be. 

When on my soldier's knee, 
And he kisses and blesses his Annie, O ' 



FOR LACK OF GOLD. 

The country girls in Ayrshire, instead of thfi 
line 



say, 



She me forsook for a great duke, 



For Athole's duke she me forsook : 



which I take to be the original reading. 

These words were composed by the late Dr. 
Austin, physician at Edinburgh. — He had 
courted a lady,* to whom he was shortly to 
have been married : but the Duke of Athole 
having seen her, became so much in love with 
her, that he made proposals of marriage, which 
were accepted of, and she jilted the Doctor— - 
Burns. 

dr. austin. 

Tune—" For Lack of Gold." 

For lack of gold she has left me, O ; 
And of all that's dear she's bereft me, O ; 
She me forsook for Athole's duke. 
And to endless wo she has left me, O. 
A star and garter have more art 
Than youth, a true and faithful heart ; 



* Jean, daughter of John Drummond, of Megg 
inch, Esq. 



138 



BURNS' WORKS. 



For empty titles we must part ; 

For glittering siiow sbe has left me, O. 

No cruel fair shall ever move 
IMy injur'd heart again to love ; 
Thro' distant climates T must rove, 
Since Jeany she has left me, O. 
Ye powers above, I to your care 
Resign my faithless lovely fair ; 
Your choicest blessings be her share, 
Tho' she has ever left me, O ! 



MILL, MILL O. 

The original, or at least a song evidently 
prior to Ramsay's, is still extant It runs thus : 

The mill, mill O, and the kill, kill O, 
And the coggin o' Peggy's wheel O, 

The sack and the sieve, and a' she did leave, 
And dancd the miller's reel O. 

As I cam down yon waterside. 

And by yon shellin-hill O, 
There I spied a bonnie bonnie lass, 

And a lass that I lov'd right weel O. — * 



. — Burns. 



MILL, MILL O. 

Beneath a green shade I fand a fair maid 

Was sleeping sound and still-0, 
A' lowing wi' love, my fancy did rove, 

Around her with good will-0 : 
Her bosom I press'd, but, sunk in her rest, 

She stir'd na my joy to spill-0 ; 
While kindly she slept, close to her I crept, 

And kiss'd, and kiss'd her my fill-0. 

Oblig'd by command in Flanders to land, 

T' employ my courage and skill-0, 
Frae 'er quietly I staw, hoist'd sails and awa, 

For wind blew fair on the hill-0. 
Twa years brought me hame, where loud-frasing 
fame 

Tald me with a voice right shrill- O, 
My lass, like a fool, had mounted the stool, 

Nor ken'd wha'd done her the ill-0. 

Mair fond of her charms, with my son in her 
arms, 

A ferlying speer'd how she fell-0 ; 
Wi' the tear in her eye, quoth she, let me die, 

Sweet Sir, gin I can tell-0. 



* The remaining two stanzas, though pretty enough, 
partake rather too much of the rude simplicity of the 
" Olden time" to be admitted here.— Ed. 



Love gae the command, I took her by he Iisndi 

And bad her a' fears expel- O, 
And nae mair look wan, for t was the man 

Wha had done her the deed mysell-0. 

My bonnie sweet lass, on the gowany grass, 

Beneath the shiUing-hill-O, 
If I did offence, I'se make ye amends, 

Before I leave Peggy's mill-0. 
O ! the mill, mill-0, and the kill, kill-O, 

And the cogging of the wheel-0. 
The sack and the sieve, a' thae ye man leave 

And round with a soger reel-O 



WALY, WALY. 

In the we?>t country I have heard a different 
edition of the second stanza. — Instead of the 
four lines, beginning with, '' When cackle 
shells,'" S^c. the other way ran thus : — 

O WHEREFORE need I busk my head, 
Or wherefore need I kame my hair, 

Sin my fause luve has me forsook. 
And says he'll never luve me mair. — 
Burns. 



WALV waly up the bank, 
And waly waly down the brae, 

And waly waly by yon burn-side. 

Where I and my love were wont to gae. 

1 leant my back unto an aik, 

I thought it was a trustie trie ; 
But first it bow'd, and syne it brake. 
And sae my true love did lyghtlie me. 

O waly waly gin love be bonnie 

A little time while it is new ; 
But when its auld it waxeth cauld, 

And fades awa' like morning-dew. 
O wherefore shu'd I busk my head ? 

Or wherefore shu'd I kame my hair ? 
For my true love has me forsook, 

And says he'll never loe me mair. 

Now Arthur-seat shall be my be'', 

The sheits shall neir be fyl'd by me : 
Saint Anton's well sail be my drink, 

Since my true love has forsaken me. 
Marti'mas wind, whan wilt thou blaw, 

And shake the green leaves aff the trie ? 
O gentle death, whan wilt thcsi cum ? 

For of my life I am wearie. 

'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, 
Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie ; 

'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, 
But my love's heart grown cauld to mew 

Whan we came in by Glasgowe town. 
We were a comely sight to see ; 





SOISUS. i29 


My love was clad i' th' black velvet, 


There s Johnie Smith has got a wife 


And I mysell in cramasie. 


That scrimps him o' his cogie, 




If she were mine, upon my life 


But had I wist before I kisst, 


I'd douk her in a bogie. 


That ove had been sae ill to win, 


My cogie, Sirs, §*c. — Burns. 


I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd, 




And pinn d it wi' a siller pin. 
Oh, oh ! if my young babe were borne, 






And set upon the nurse's knee, 




And I mysell were dead and gone, 


CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN, 


For a maid again He never be ! 






There's cauld kail in Aberdeen, 




And castocks in Stra'bogie ; 
Gin I but hae a bonny lass, 






Ye're welcome to your cogie : 


TODLEN HAME. 


And ye may sit up a' the night, 




And drink till it be braid day-light ; 


This is, perhaps, the first bottle song that 


Gie me a lass baith clean and tight, 


ever was composed — Burns. 


To dance the Reel of Bogie. 


When I've a saxpence under my thumb. 


In cotillons the French excel ; 


Then I'll get credit in ilka town : 


John Bull loves countra-dances ; 


But ay when I'm poor they bid me gae by; 


The Spaniards dance fandangos well ; 


! poverty parts good company. 


Mynheer an allemande prances : 


Todlen kame, todlen hame, 


In foursome reels the Scotch delight, 


Coudna my loove come todlen hame ? 


The threesome maist dance wond'rous lign* j 




But twasome's ding a' out o' sight, ^ 


Fair-fa' the goodwife, and send her good sale. 


Danc'd to the Reel of Bogie. 


She gi'es us white bannocks to drink her ale, 




Syne if her tippony chance to be sma', 


Come, lads, and view your partners well, ! 


We'll tak a good scour o't, and ca't awa'. 


Wale each a blythsome rogie ; 


Todlen hame, todlen hame. 


I'll tak this lassie to mysel, 


As round as a neep, come todlen hame. 


She seems sae keen and vogie ! 




Now piper lad bang up the spring ; 


My kimmer and I lay down to sleep. 


The countra fashion is the thing. 


And twa pintstoups at our bed-feet ; 


To prie their mou's e'er we begin 


And ay when we waken'd, we drank them dry : 


To dante the Reel of Bogie. 


What think ye of my wee kimmer and I ? 




Todlen but, and todlen ben. 


Now ilka lad has got a lass. 


Sae round as my loove comes todlen hame. 


Save yon auld doited fogie ; 




And ta'en a fling upo' the grass, 


Leeze me on liquor, my todlen dow, 


As they do in Stra'bogie : 


Ye're ay sae good humour'd when weeting your 


But a' the lasses look sae fain. 


mou; 


We canna think oursel's to hain, 


When sober sae sour, ye'll fight wi* a flee, 


For they maun hae their c»rae again 


That 'tis a blyth sight to the bairns and me, 


To dance the Reel of Bogie. 


When todlen hame, todlen hame, 




When round as a neep ye come todlen hame. 


Now a' the lads hae done their best. 




Like true men of Stra'bogie ; 




We'll stop awhile and tak a rest. 
And tipple out a cogie : 






Come now, my lads, and tak your glaMp 


CAULD KAIL IN ABEKDEEN. 


And try ilk other to surpass, 




In wishing health to every lass 


This i-ong is by the Duke of Gordon — The 


To dance the Reel of Bogie. 


lid verses are, 

There's cauid kail in Aberdeen, 






And castocks in Strabogie ; 




When ilka lad maun hae his lass, 


WE RAN AND THEY RAN. 


Then fye, gie me my cogie. 




My cogie. Sirs, my cogie, Sirs, 


The author of We ran and they ran, tuiA 


I cannot want my cogie : 


they ran and we ran, 8fc. was the late Rev 


Iwadna gie my three-girr'dstoup 


Murdoch M'Lennan, minister at Crathie, D*** 


For a the quenes on B >gie. 


side Burns. 


M 


rj 


1 



130 



BURNS' WORKS. 



i i 



I I 



There's some say that we wan, 

Some say that they wan, 
Some say that nane wan at a', man ; 

But one thing I'm sure. 

That at Sheriif Muir * 
A battle there was, which I saw, man ; 

And we rai, and they ran, and they ran, 
and ice ran, and we ran, and they ran awa\ 
man. 

Brave Argyle -j- and Belhaven, ^ 

Not Hke frighted Leven, § 
Which Rothes || and Haddington ^ sa', man j 

For they all with Wightman ** 

Advanced on the right, man, 
While others took flight, being ra', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, Sfc. 

Lord Roxburgh f f was there. 

In order to share 
With Douglas, ^j^ who stood not in awe, man, 

Volunteerly to ramble 

"With lord Loudon Campbell, || || 
Brave Hay §§ did suffer for a', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, 8fc. 

Sir John Schaw, ^^ that great knight, 

Wi' broad-sword most bright. 
On horseback he briskly did charge, man ; 

An hero that's bold. 

None could him with-hold, 
fie stoutly encounter'd the targemen. 
And we ran, and they ran, 8fC. 

For the cowardly Whittam, *** 

For fear they should cut him, 
Seeing glittering broad-swofds wi' a pa', man, 

And that in such thrang, 

Made Baird edicang, ff -f- 
And from the brave clans ran awa', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, Sfc. 



* The battle of Dumblain or Sheriff-muir was fought 
the 13th of November 1715, between the Earl of Mar, 
for the Chevalier, and the Duke of Argyle for the go- 
vernment. Both sides claimed the victory, the left 
wing of either army being routed. The capture of 
Preston, it is very remarkable, happened on the same 
day. 

t John (Campbell) i'd Duke of Argyle, commander- 
in-chief of the government forces ; a nobleman of great 
talents and integrity, much respected by all parties: 
died 1745. 

:!: John (Hamilton) Lord Belhaven ; served as a vo- 
lunteer; and had the command of a troop of horse 
raised by the county of Haddington : perished at sea, 
1721. 

§ David (Lesly) Earl of Leven ; for the government. 

II John (Lesly) Earl of RoUies; for the government. 

11 Thimas (Hamilton) Earl of Haddington; for the 
goverrin ent. 

** Major-Heneral Joseph Wightman. 

tf John (Ker) first Duke of Roxburgh; for the ga- 
ment. 

tt Archibald (Douglas) Duke of Douglas, 

nil Hugh (Cfimpbell) Earl of Loudon.. 

§^ Archibald Earl of Hay, brother to the Duke of 
\rgyle. He was dangerou>'ly wounded. 

•jllf An officer in the trooji'of pentleman Tolunteers. 

*** Major-general Thomas \Vlntham. 

♦ft i. e. Aid du camp. 



Brave Mar * and Panraurel* 

Were firm I am sure, 
The latter was kidnapt awa', man, 

With brisk men about. 

Brave Harry \ retook 
His brother, and laught at them a', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, ^c. 

Grave Mai-shall j| and Lithgow, § 

And Glengary's *! pith too, 
Assisted by brave Loggie-a-man, *• 

And Gordons the bright 

So boldly did fight, 
The redcoats took flight and awa', man. 
And ive ran, and they ran, |fc. 

Strathmore f f and Clanronald j:| 
Cry'd still, advance, Donald ! 

Till both these heroes did fa', man ; |( || 
For there was such hashing. 
And broad-swords a clashing. 

Brave Forfar §§ himself got a cla', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, Sfc. 



* John (Erskine) Earl of Mar, commander-in-chiei 
of the Chevalier's army; a nobleman of great spirit, 
honour, and abilities. He died at Aix-Ia-Chapelle in 
1752. 

t James (Maule) Earl of Panmure; died at PariSf 

^ Honourable Harry Maule, brother to the Earl. 
The circumstance here alluded to is thus related in the 
Earl of Mar's printed account of the engagement: — 
" The prisoners taken by us were very civilly used, 
and none of them stript "Some were ailow'd to return 
to Stirling upon their parole, &c. . . The few prison- 
ers taken by the enemy on oui left were most of them 
stript and wounded alter taken. The Earl of Pan- 
mure being first of the prisoners wounded after taken. 
They having refu.sed his parole, he was left in a vil- 
lage, and by the hasty retreat of the enemy, upon the 
apprfiach oiF our army, was rescu'd by his'brother and 
his servants " 

II George (Keith) Earl Marischall, then a youth at 
college. He died at his government of Neufchatel in 
1 771. His brother, the celebrated Marshall Keith, was 
with him in this battle. 

§ James (Livingston) Earl of Calendar and Linlith- 
gow : attainted. 

11 Alexander M'Donald of Glengary, laird of a clan ; 
a brave and spirited chief : attainted. 

** Thomas Drummond of Logie-Almond ; com- 
manded the two battalions of Drummonds. He was 
wounded. 

t+ John (Lyon) Earl of Strathmore; "a man of 
good parts, of a most amiable disposition and charac- 
ter." 

f± Ranald M'Donald, Captain of Clan Ranald. 
N. B. The Captain of a clan was one who, being next 
or near in blood to the Chief, headed them in his inian 
cy or absence 

II II " We have lost to our regret, the Earl of Strath- 
more and the Captain of Ciaii R;mald." Ear! of Mar's 
Letter to the Govemor of Perth. Again, printed ac- 
count : — " We cann't find above fiO of our mm in all 
kill'd, among whom were the Karl of Strathmore [and] 
the Captain of Clan Ranald, both much lamented.** 
The latter, " for his good parts and gentle accomplish- 
ments, was look'd ujion as the mo.^t gallant and gener. 
ous younc; gentleman among the clans. ... He was 
lamented by both parties that knew him." 

His servant, who lay on the field watching his nead 
body, being asked next day who that was, answered, 
He was a man yesterday BosweU's Jourjiey to the He- 
brides, p. 359. 

^ Archibald (Douglas) ^arl of Forfar, who com- 
manded a regiment in the Luke's army. He is s.iid tc 
have been shot in the knee, and to have had fen oi 
twelve cuts in his head from the broad-swords, H« 
died a few days after of his \\ounds. 



SONGS. 



13'1 



Lord PertK * stood the storm, 

Seaforth f but lukewarm, 
Kilsyth I and Strathallan {{ not sla', '^an ; 

And Hamilton § pled 

The men were not bred, 
Por he had no fancy to fa', man. 

And we ran, and they ran, 8^c. 

Brave generous Southesk, ^ 

Tilebairn ** was brisk, 
Whose father indeed would not dra', man, 

Into the same yoke, 

Which serv'd for a cloak, 
To keep the estate 'twixt them twa, man. 
And we ran, and ihey ran, Sfc. 

Lord Rollo f f not fear'd, 

Kiotore || and his beard, 
Pitsligo II li and OgUvie §§ a*, man, 

And brothers Balfours, ^f 

They stood the first show'rs, 
Clackmannan and Burleigh *** did cla', ma 
And we ran, and they ran, 8fc. 

But Cleppan f f | acted pretty. 

And Strowan the witty, ||^ 
A poet that pleases us a", man ; 

For mine is but rdiime. 

In respect of what's fme, 
Or what he is able to dra', man. 

And we ran, and they ran, 8cc. 



« James Marquis of Drummond, son of James 
(Drummond) Duke of Perth, was lieutenant-general 
of horse, and " behaved with great gallantry." rie 
was attainted, but escaped to France, where he soon 
after died. 

t William (Mackenzie) Earl of Seaforth. He was 
attainted, and died in 174(i. 

t William (Livingston) Viscount Kilsyth: attainted. 

II William (Drummond) Viscount Strathallan ; 
whose sense of loyalty could scarcely equal the spirit 
and activity he manifested in the cause. He was ta- 
ken prisoner in tliis battle, which he survived to per- 
ish in the still more fatal one of Culloden..muir. 

§ Lieutenant-general George Hamilton, command- 
ing under the Earl of Mar. 

•^ James (Carnegie) Earl of Southesk ; was attaint- 
ed, and, escaping to France, died there in 1729. 

** William (Murray) Marquis of Tullibardin, eldest 
son to the Duke of Athole. Having been attainted, 
he was taken at sea m 1746, and died soon after, of a 
flux, in the Tower. 

tt Fiobert (Rollo) Lord Rollo; " a man of singular 
merit and great integrity :" died in 1758. 

it William (Keith) Earl of Kintore. 
III! Alexander (Forbes) Lord Pitsligo ; "a man of good 
pans, great honour and spirit, and universally beloved 
and esteemed." He was engaged again in the affair of 
174.5, for which he was attainted, and died at an ad- 
vanccKl age in 1762. 

^ (j James Lord Ogilvie, eldest son of David (Ogil- 
vie) Earl of Airly. He was attainted, but afterwards 
pardoned. His father, not dra'ing into the same yoke, 
; aved the estate. 

IfH Some relations it is supposed of the Lord Bur- 
leigh. 

*** Robert (Balfour) Lord Burleigh. He was at- 
tamfed, and died in 1757- 

tft Major William Clephane, adjutant-general to 
the Marquis of Drummond. 

XXt A lexandiT Robertson of Struan; who, having 
experienced every vicissitude of life, with a stoical 
firmness, died in peace 1749. He was an excellent 
'>et, an*« h?? left elegies worthy of Tibullus. 



For Huntley • and Sinclair j 
They both play'd the tinclair. 

With consciences black like a era* maa> 
Some Angus and Fifemen 
They ran for their life, man. 

And ne'er a Lot's wife there at a*, man. 
And we ran, and they ran, 8fc. 

Then Laurie the traytor, 

Who betray'd his master, 
His king and his country and a', man 

Pretending Mar might 

Give order to fight, 
To the right of the army awa', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, Sfc. 

Then Laurie, for fear 

Of what he might hear. 
Took Druramond's best horse and awa', n 

Instead o* going to Perth, 

He cros.sed the Firth, 
Alongst Stirling-bridge and awa', man. 
-J re? we ran, (ind they ran, Sfc. 

To London he prcss'd, 

And there he address'd, 
That he behav'd best o' them a', man ; 

Anri there without strife 

Got settled for life, 
An hundred a year to his fa', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, §-c. 

In Burrowstounuess 

He resides wi' disgrace. 
Till his neck stand in need of a dra', mts^ 

And then in a tether 

He'll swing frae a ladder, 
[And] go air the stage with a pa', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, Sfc. 

Rob Roy stood watch 

On a hill for to catch 
The booty for ought that I sa', man. 

For he ne'er advanc'd 

From the place he was stanc'd, 
Till nae mair to do there at a', man. 
And we ran, and they ran, §*c. 

So we a' took the flight. 

And Moubray the wright ; 
But Letham the smith was a bra' man, 

For he took the gout, 

Which truly was wit. 
By judging it time to withdra', man. 
And we ran, and they run, ^'c. 

And trurni et M'Lean, 
ViTiose breeks were not clean. 



1 



I 



« Alexander (Gordon) Marquis of Huntley, eldest 
son to the Duke of Gordon, who, according to the 
usual policy of his country, (of which we here meet 
with several other instances), remained neutral. 

t John Sinclair, Esq. commonly called Master of 
Sinclair, eldest son of Henry Lord Sinclair; was at- 
tointeti, but afterwards pard ned, and died in 17.^a 
1 ne estate was preserved of course. 



132 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Thro' misfortune he happen'd to fa', man, 

By saving his neck 

His trumpet did break, 
Came aff without musick at a', man.* 
And we ran, and they ran, 8fc. 

So there such a race was, 

As ne'er in that place was, 
And as little chase was at a', man ; 

Frae ither they ' run' 

Without touk o' drum 
Thev did not make use of a pa', man. 

And we ran, and thej. ran, and they ran, 
and we ran, and we ran, and they ran awa*, 
nwn. 



BIDE YE YET. 

Thkre is a beautifiil song to this tune, be- 
ginning, 

Alas, my son, you little know — 

which is the composition of a Miss Jenny 
Graliam of Dumfries. — Burns. 

Alas! my sou, you little know 
The sorrows that from wedlock flow : 
Farewell to every day of ease, 
When you have gotten a wife to please. 
Sae hide you yet, and hide you yet. 
Ye little ken whafs to hetide you yet ; 
The half of that will yane you yet. 
If a wayward wife, obtain you yet. 

Your experience is but small, 
As yet you've met with little thrall ; 
The black cow on your foot ne'er trod, 
Which gars you sing alang the road. 

Sae hide you yet, 8fc. 

Sometimes the rock, sometimes the rr el, 
Or some piece of the spinning-wheel, 
She will drive at you wi' good will. 
And then she'll send you to the de'il. 

Sae bide you yet, §*c. 



When I like you was young and free, 
I valued not the proudest she ; 
Like you I vainly boasted then, 
That men alone were born to reign. 

Sae hide you yet, 8^e. 

Great Hercules and Sampson too. 
Were stronger men than I or you ; 
Yet they were baffled by their dears, 
And felt the distaff and the sheers. 

Sue hide you yet, §•«. 

Stout gates of brass, and well-built walls. 
Are proof *gainst swords and cannon-balls 
But nought is found by sea or land, 
That can a wayward wife withstand. 

" le bide you yet, §"C 



>fDE YE YET. 



Gin I had a wee house and a canty wee fii» 
A bonny wee wifie to praise and admire, 
A bonny wee yardie aside a wee burn ; 
Fareweel to the bodies that yammer and mtyvnr^ 
Sae bide ye yet, and bide ye yet. 
Ye little ken what may hetide ye yetj 
Some bonny wee body may he mil loty 
And I'll he canty wi' thinking o't. 

When I gang afield, and come home at e ea, 
I'll get my wee wifie fou neat and fou clean { 
And a bonny wee bairne upon her knee. 
That will cry, papa, or daddy, to me. 

Sae hide ye yet, S^c. 

And if there happen ever to be 
A diflf'rence atween my wee wifie and me. 
In hearty good humour, although she be teaa'd^ 
I'll kiss her and clap her until she be pleas'd. 
Sae bide ye yet, 8fc. 



* The particulars of this anecdote no where appear. 
The hero is supposed to be the »ame John M'Lean, 
trumpet, who was sent from Lord M;ir, then at Perth, 
with a letter to the Duke of Arg\ )c, at Stirling camp, 
on the 50th of October. F'dt i -iginal Letters 1730. 
Two copies, however, printed not long after 1715, 
read, " And trumpet Marine." 

In 1782 the son of this Trumpeter Marine told the 
Earl of Haddington (then LwA Binning) that the first ' 
circuit he ever attended, as one of his Majesty's house- 
hold trumpeters, was the Northern, in the year 1716, a- | 
longwithold Lord Minto. Thatthereason ofhisgoin^; 
there was. that the circuit immediately preceding, his j 
father had been so harassed in every town he went ' 
through, by the people singing his verse, " And trum- ; 
pet Marine, whose bree/cs," &c. of this song, that he ^ 
wore be would never go again ; and actually resigned 
bie situation in favour of his son — Campbell's History 
of Poetry in Scotland. I 



THE ROCK AND THE WEE PICKLE 
TOW. 

BY AliBXANDER ROSS. 

There was an auld wife an' a wee pickle to\r, 

An' she wad gae try the spinning o't, 

She louted her down, an' her rock took a low, 

And that was a bad beginning o't : 

She sat an' she grat, an' she flet and she flang. 

An' she threw an' she blew, an' she wrigl'd an' 

wrang. 
An' she choked, an' boaked, 

mang, 
Alas ! for the dreary spinning o't. 



cry'd like te 



I've wanted a sark for these eight years an* ten. 
An' this was to be the beginning o't, 



SONGS. 



133 



But I vow, I sliall want it for as lang again, 

Or ever I try the spinning o't ; 

For never since ever they ca'd me as they ca' 

me, 
Did sic a mishap an' misanter befa' me, 
But ye shall hae leave baith to hang me an' 

draw me, 
The neist time I try the spinning o't. 

I liae kceped my house for these three score o' 

\ ears, 
An' ay 1 kept free o' the spinning o't, 
But how I was sarked foul fa* them that speers. 
For it minds me upo' the beginning o't. 
But our women are now a days grown sae bra', 
That ilka an maun hae a sark an' some hae twa, 
The warlds were better when ne'er an awa' 
Had a rag but ane at the beginning o't. 

Foul fa' her that ever advis'd me to spin, 
That had been so lang a beginning o't, 
I might well have ended as I did begin, 
Nor have got sick a skair with the spinning o't. 
But they'll say, she's a wyse wife that kens her 

ain weerd, 
I thought on a day, it should never be speer'd, 
How loot ye the low take your rock be the 

beard. 
When ye yeed to try the spinning o't ? 

The spinning, the spinning it gars my heart sob, 

When I think upo* the beginning o't, 

I thought ere I died to have anes made a web. 

But still I had weers o' the spinning o't. 

But had I nine dathei-s, as I hae but three. 

The safest and soundest advice I cud gee. 

Is that they frae spinuiog wad keep their hands 

free, 
For fear of a bad beginning o't. 

Yet in spite of my counsel if they vv^ill needs run 
The drearysome risk of the spinning o't. 
Let them seek out a lythe in the heat of the sun. 
And there venture o' the beginning o't : 
But to do as I did, alas, and awow ! 
To busk up a rock at the cheek of the low, 
Says, that I had but little wit in my pow, 
And as little ado with the spinning o't. 

But yet after a', there is ae thing that grieves 
My heart to think o' the beginning o't. 
Had I won the length but of ae pair o* sleeves, 
Then there had been word o' the spinning o't ; 
This I wad ha' washen an' bleech'd like the snaw, 
•\nd o' my twa gardies like moggans wad draw. 
An' then fouk wad say, that auld Giray was bra', 
An' a' was upon her ain spinning o't. 

But gin I wad shog about till a new spring, 
I should yet hae a bout of the spinning o't, 
A mutchkin of linseed I'd i' the yerd fling, 
For a' the wan chansie beginning o't. 
1*11 gar my ain Tammie gae down to the how, 
4n rut me a 'ock of a widdershines grow, 



Of good ranty-tree for to carry my tow, 

An* a spindle of the same for the twining o't. 

For now when I mioj. \~ ^>t>t Maggy Grim 
This morning just a;. "> beginning o i. 
She was never ca'd :*.aucy, but canny an' slim, 
An' sae it has fair'd . my spinning o't : 
But an' my new rock were anes cutted an'' dry, 
I'll a' Maggies can an' her cantraps defy, 
An' but onie sussie the spinning I'll try. 
An' ye's a' hear o' the beginning o't. 

Quo' Tibby, her dather, tak tent fat ye say, 
The never a ragg we'll be seeking o't. 
Gin ye anes begin, ye'll tarveal's night an' day, 
Sae it's vain ony mair to be speaking o't. 
Since lambas I'm now gaing thirty an' twa. 
An' never a dud sark had I yet gryt or sma'. 
An' what war am I? I'm as warm an' as bra, 
As thrummy tail'd Meg that's a spinner o't. 

To labor the lint- land, an' then buy the seed. 
An' then to yoke me to the harrowing o't. 
An' syn loll amon't an' pike out ilka weed, 
Like fwine in a sty at the farrowing o't ; 
Syn powing and ripling an' steeping, an' then 
To gar's gae an' spread it upo' the cauld plain, 
An' then after a' may be labor in vain. 
When the wind and the weet gets the fusion o't. 

But tho' it should anter the weather to Ijyde, 
Wi' beetles we're set to the drubbing o't. 
An' then frae our fingers to gnidge aif the hide. 
With the wearisome wark o' the rubbing o't. 
An' syn ilka tait maun be heckl'd out throw, 
The lint putten ae gate, anither the tow, 
Syn on a rock wi't, an' it taks a low, 
The back o' my hand to the spinning o't. 

Quo' Jenny, I think 'oman ye're i' the right. 
Set your feet ay a spar to the spinning o't, 
We may tak our advice frae our ain mither's 

fright 
That she gat when she try'd the beginning o't. 
But they'll say that auld fouk are twice bairns 

indeed, 
An' sae she has kythed it, but there's nae need 
To sickan an amshack that we drive our head. 
As langs we're sae skair'd fra the spinning o't. 

Quo' Nanny the youngest, I've now heard 

you a", 
An' dowie's your doom o' the spinning o't. 
Gin ye, fan the cows flings, the cog cast awa', 
Ye may see where ye'll lick up your winning 

o't. 
But I see that but spinning I'll never be bra'. 
But gae by the name of a dilp or a da, 
Sae lack where ye like I shall anes shak a fa', 
Afore 1 be dung with the spinning o't. 

For well I can mind me when black Willie BeU 
Had Tibbie there just at the winning o't. 
What blew up the bargain, she kens well hersell, 
Was the want of the knack of the spinning o't. 



134 



BURNS' WORKS. 



An' now, poor 'oman, for ouglit that I ken, 
She may never get sic an offer again, 
But pine away bit an' hit, like Jenkin's hen, 
An* naething to wyte but the spinning o't. 

But were it for naething, but just this alane, 

I shall yet hae about o' the spinning o't. 

They may cast me for ca'ing me black at the 

bean. 
But nae cause I shun'd the beginning o't. 
But, be that as it hap])ens, I care not a sti-ae. 
But nane of the lads shall hae it to ^ay. 
When they come till woo, she kens naething 

avae, 
Nor has onie ken o' the spinning o't. 

In the days they ca'd yore, gin auld fouks had 

but won. 
To a surkoat hough side for the winning o't. 
Of coat raips well cut by the cast o' their bun. 
They never sought mair o' the spinning o't. 
A pair of grey hoggers well clinked becew, 
Of nae other lit but the hue of the ew, 
With a pair of rough ruUions to scuif thro' the 

dew, 
Was the fee they sought at the beginning o't. 

But we maun hae linen, an' that maun hae we, 
An' how get we that, but the spinning o't ? 
How can we hae face for to seek a gryt fee, 
Except we can help at the winning o't ? 
An' we maun hae pearlins and mabbies an' 

cocks, 
An' some other thing that the ladies ca' smoks, 
An' how get we that, gin we tak na our rocks, 
And pow what we can at tiie spinning o't ? 

'Tis needless for us for to tak our remarks 
Frae our mither's miscooking the spinning o't, 
She never kend ought o' the gueed of the sarks, 
Frae this aback to the beginning o't. 
Twa thrt-fl ell of plaiden vt^as a' that was sought 
By our auld warld bodies, an' that boot be 

bought, 
For in ilka town sickan things was nae wrought, 
So little they kend o' the spinning o't. 



HOOLY AND FAIRLY. 

It is remark-worthy that the song of Ilooly 
xnd Fairly, in all the old editions of it, is cal- 
ed The Drunken Wife d Galloway, which 
ocalizes it to that country — Burns. 

THE DRUNKEN WIFE o' GALLOWAY. 

Oh ! what had I to do for to marry ? 
My wife she drinks naething but sack and Ca- 
nary, 
i to her friends complain'd right early, 
O ! gin my wife wad drink hooly and fair .^y, 

Hodly and fairly, hooly and fairly, 
O ! gin my wife wad drink hv^.f tnd faiHy. \ 



First she diank crun. mie, and syne she dranll 

garie ; 
Now she has druken my bonny grey mane. 
That carried me thro' a' the dubs and the larie 
O ! gin, 8fc. 

She has druken her stockins, sa has she her 

shoon. 
And she has druken her bonny new gown ; 
Her wee bit dud sark that co'erd her fu' rarely 
O ! gin, Sfc. 

If she'd drink but her ain things I wad na much 

care, 
But she drinks my claiths I canna weel spare, 
When I'm wi' my gossips, it angers me sairly, 
O ! gin, &^c, 

My Sunday's coat she's laid it a wad. 
The best blue bonnet e'er was on my head; 
At kirk and at market I'm cover'd but barely, 
O ! gi?i, §*o. 

The verra gray mittens that gaed on my han*8. 
To her neehor wife she has laid them in pawns j 
My bane-headed staif that I lo'ed sae dearly, 
O ! gin, 8fc. 

If there's ony siller, she maun keep the purse ; 
If I seek but a baubee she'll scauld and she'll 

curse, 
She gangs like a queen — I scrimped and sparely, 
O ! gin, 8^c. 

I never was given to wrangling nor strife, 
Nor e'er did refuse her the comforts of life ; 
Ere it come to a war I'm ay for a parley. 
O ! gin, ^c. 

A pint wi' her cummers I wad her allow, 
But when she sits down she tills herself fou ; 
And when she is fou she's mico camstarie, 
O I gin, §-c. 

Wlien she comes to the street she roars and 

she rants. 
Has nae fear o' her neebors, nor minds the 

house wants ; 
She rants up some fool-sang, like " Up y'ef 

heart, Charlie.^' 

O ! gin, §*c. 

And when she comes hame she lays on the lada, 
She ca's the lasses baith limmers and jads, 
And I, my ain sell, an anld cuckold carlic, 
O ! gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly, 

Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly, 
O ! yin my ivife icad drink hooly aiid fairly. 



SONGS 



133 



THE OLD MAN'S SONG. 

BY THE REV J. SKINNER. 

Turie-'" Dumbarton Drums." 

O ! WHY should old age so much wound us ! * 
There is nothing in it all to confound us : 

For how happy now am I, 

With my old wife sitting by, 
And our bairns and our oys j- all around us ; 

Par how happy now am I, §*c. 

We began in the warld wi' naething, 
And we've jogg'd on, and toil'd for the ae thing ; 
We made use of what we had, 
And our thankful hearts were glad ; 
Wlien we got the bit meat and the claithing, 
We made use of what we had, Sfc. 

We have liv'd all our life-time contented, 
Sin.:!e the day we became first acquainted : 

It's true we've been but poor, 

And we are so to this hour ; 
But we never yet repin'd or lamented. 

Ifs true we've been but poor, 8fc. 

When we had any stock, we ne'er vauntit. 
Nor did we hing our heads when we wantit ; 

But we always gave a share 

Of the little we cou'd spare. 
When it pleas'd a kind Heaven to grant it. 

But we always gave a share, §*c. 

We never laid a scheme to be wealthy, 
By means that were cunning or stealthy j 
But we always had the bliss, 
(And what further could we wiss). 
To be pleas'd with ourselves, and be healthy. 
But ive always had the bliss, ^c. 

What tho' we cannot boast of our guineas, 
We have plenty of Jockies and Jeanies ; 

And these, I'm certain, are 

More iesirable by far 
Than a bag full of poor yellow sleenies. 

And these, Fm certain, are, ^c. 

We have seen many wonder afid ferly, 
Of changes that almost are yearly. 

Among rich folks up and down, 

Both in country and in town. 
Who now live but scrimply and barely, 

A-moToy "^"h folks up and down, 8^c. 

Then why should people brag of prosperity ? 

A stralten'd life we see is no rarity ; 
Indeed we've been in want. 
And our living's been but scant. 

Yet we never were reduced to need charity. 
Indeed we've been in want, SfC. 



In this house we first came together. 
Where we've long been a father and mither , 

And tho' not of stone and lime, 

It will last us all our time ; 
And, I hope, we shall ne'er need anither. 

And tho' not of stone and lime, ^c. 

And when we leave this poor habitation, 
We'll depart with a good commendation ; 
We'll go hand in baud, I wiss, 
To a betfer house than this, 
To make room for the next generation. 

Then ivhy should old age so much wound m» 
There is nothing in it all to confound us t 
For how happy now am I, 
With my old wife sitting by, 
And our bairns and our oys all around us. 



* This tune requires O to be added at the end of 
each of the long hues, but in reading tlie 4ong the O 
is better omitted. 

t Qs/>~-Grand-children. 



TAK YOUR AULD CLOAK ABOUT YE. 

A PART of this old song, according to the 
English se^ of it, is quoted in Shakspeare. *— 
Burns. 

In winter when the rain rain'd cauld, 

And frost and snaw on ilka hill, 
And Boreas, with his blasts sae bauld, 

Was threat' ning a' our ky to kill : 
Then Bell my wife, wha loves na strife, 

She said to me right hastily. 
Get up, goodman, save Cromy's life, 

And tak your auld cloak about ye. 

My Cromie is an useful cow, 

And she is come of a good kyne ; 
Aft has she wet the bairns' mou, 

And I am lait'i that she shou'd tyne. 
Get up, goodman, it is fi)u time. 

The sun shines in the lift sae hie ; 
Sloth never made a gracious end. 

Go tak your auld cloak about ye. 

My cloak was anes a good grey cloak, 

When it was fitting for my wear ; 
But now it's scantly worth a groat. 

For I have worn't this thirty year ; 
Let's spend the gear that we have won, 

We little ken the day we'll die : 
Then I'll be proud, smce I have sworn 

To have a new cloak about me. 



II 



* In the drinking scene in Othello: lago sings^-"* 

King Stephen was a worthy peer, 

His breeches cost him but a crown ; 
He held them sixpence all too dear. 

With that he called the tailor lown. 
He was a wight of high renown, 

And thou art but of low degree ; 
'Tis pride that pulls the country down. 

Then take thine auld cloak about th/?e. 

The old song from which these stan7as were takcB 
was recovered by Dr. Percy, and preserved by hira '« 
his RdiQues of Ancient Podry. 



I I 



136 BURNS' 


WORKS. 


In days when our king Robert rang, 


" Yestreen I lay in a well-made bed. 


His trews they cost but haff a crown; 


And my good lord beside me ; 


He said they were a groat o'er dear, 


This night I'll ly in a tenant's barn, 


And call'd the taylor thief and loun. 


Whatever shall betide me." 


He was the king that wore a crown, 




And thou the man of laigh degree, 


Come to your bed, says Johny Faa, 


'Tis pride puts a' the country down. 


Oh ! come to your bed, my deary ; 


Sae tak thy auld cloak about thee. 


For I vow and swear by the hilt of my sword. 




That your loid shall nae mair come near ye 


Every land has its ain laugh. 




Ilk kind of corn it has its hool, 


" 1*11 go to bed to my Johny Faa, 


I think the warld is a' run wrang, 


And I'll go to bed tj my deary ; 


WTien ilka wife her man wad rule ; 


For I vow and swear by what past yestreen, 


Do ye not see Rob, Jock, and Hab, 


That my lord shall nae mair come near me 


As they are girded gallantly, 




While I sit hurklen in the ase ; 


" I'll mak a hap to my Johny Faa, 


I'll have a new cloak about me. 


And I'll mak a hap to my deary ; 




And he's get a' the coat gaes round, 


Goodman, I wate 'tis thirty years, 


And my lord shall nae mair come near me. 


Since we did ane anither ken ; 




And we have had between us twa. 


And when our, lord came home at e'en. 


Of lads and bonny lasses ten : 


And speir'd for his fair lady, 


Now they are women grown and men, 


The tane she cry'd, and the other reply'd. 


I wish and pray well may they be ; 


She's away wi' the gypsie laddie. 


And if you prove a good husband, 




E'en tak your auld cloak about ye. 


" Gae saddle to me the black, black steed. 




Gae saddle and mak him ready ; 


Bell my wife, she loves na strife ; 


Before that I either eat or sleep, 


But she wad guide me, if she can, 


I'll gae seek my fair lady." 


And to maintain an easy life, 




I aft maun yield, tho' I'm goodman , 


And we were fifteen well-made men» 


Nought's to be won at woman's hand, 


Altho' we were nae bonny ; 


Unless ye give her a' the plea ; 


And we were a' put down for ane. 


Then I'll leave aff where I began, 


A fair young wanton lady. 


And tak my auld cloak about me. 






TO DAUNTON ME. 


JOHNY FAA, OR THE GYPSIE 




LADDIE. 


The two following old stanzas to this tunt 




have some merit : — Burns. 


The people in Ayrshire begin this song — 


To daunton me, to daunton me. 


The gypsies cam to my Lord Cassilis' yett. 


ken ye what it is that'll daunton me ?— 




There's eighty eight and eighty nine, 


They have a great many more stanzas in this 


And a' that I hae born sinsyne, 


Bong than I ever yet saw in any printed copy. 


There's cess and press and Presbytrie, 


The castle is still remaining at Maybole, where 


I think it will do meikle for to daunton me. 


his lordship shut up his wayward spouse, and 




kept her for life. — Burns. 


But to wanton me, to wanton me. 




ken ye what it is that wad wanton me?— 


The gypsies came to our good lord's gate, 


To see gude corn upon the rigs, 


And wow but they sang sweetly ; 


And banishment amang the Whigs, 


They sang sae sweet, and sae very complete, 


And right restored where rigL. ouu oe, 


1 That down came the fair ladie. 


I think it would do meikle for to wanton m6. 


And she came tripping down the stair. 
And a' her maids before her j 






i As soon as they saw her weelfar'd face, 


TO DAUNTON ME. 


1 They coost the glamer o er her. 




1 


There is an old set of the song : not polit) 


" Gar tak fra me this gay mantile. 


cal, but very independent. It runs thus ;— - 


And bring to me a plaidie ; 




For if kith and kin and a' had sworn. 


The blude red rose at Yule may blaw. 


i I'll follow the gypsie laddie. 

i 


The simmer lilies blume in snaw. 




PAINTED BY SIR mmo imKIB '^ ""^^ 

J.Sariam sc 



iAy[L[D) [^©©0^ (S^AY, 



SONGS. 



1S7 



The frost may freeze tlie deepe&t sea, 
But an auld man shall never daunton me. 
To daunton me, and me sae young, 
Wi' his fause heart and flatterin* tongue, 
That is the thing ye ne'er shall see, 
Fo. an auld man shall never daunton me. 

For a' his meal, for a* his maut, 
For a* his fiesh beef, and his saut, 
For a' his gowd and white monie, 
An auld man shall never daunton me. 
To daunton me, &c. 

His gear may buy him kye and yowes. 
His gear may buy him gleus and knowes, 
But me he shall not buy nor fee, 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 
To daunton me, &c. 

He hirples twa fau'd as he doW; 

Wi' his teethless gab, and his bald pow, 

Ajid the rheum rins down frae his red blue e'e. 

But an auld man shall never daunton me. 



THE BONNIE LASS MADE THE BED 
TO ME. 

" The Bonnie Lass made the Bed to me," 
was composed on an amour of Charles H. when 
skulking in the North, about Aberdeen, in the 
time of the usurpation. He formed une petite 
affaire with a daughter of the House of Port- 
letham, who was the lass that made the bed to 
him : — two verses of it are, 

I kiss'd her lips sae rosy red,^ 

While the tear stood blinkin in her e'e ; 
I said my lassie dinna cry, 

For ye ay shall mak the bed to me. 

She took lier mither's winding sheet, 

And o't she made a sark to me ; 
Blythe and merry may she be, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 

Burns. 



HAD A HORSE AND 
MAIR. 



HAD NAE 



This story was founded on fact. A John 
Hunter, ancestor to a very respectable farming 
family who live in a place in the parish, I think, 
of Galston, called Barr-mill, was the luckless 
hero that had a horse and had nae mair. — For 
some little youthful follies he found it necessary 
to make a retreat to the West-Highlands, where 
he feed himself to a Highland Laird, for that 
is the expression of all the oral editions of the 
song I ever heard. — The present Mr. Hunter, 
who told me the anecdote, is the great-grand- 
child to our hero. — Burns. 



I HAD a horse, and I had nae mair, 

I gat him frae my daddy ; 
My purse was light, and my heart was 81 

But my wit it was fu' ready. 
And sae I thought me on a time, 

Outwittens of my daddy. 
To fee mysel to a lawland laird, 

Wha had a bonnie lady. 

I wrote a letter, and thus began, 

" Madam, be not offended, 
I'm o'er the lugs in love wi' you, 

And care not tho' ye kend it : 
For I get little frae he laird. 

And far less frae my daddy, 
And I would blythely be the man 

Would strive to please my lady." 

She read my letter, and she leugh, 

" Ye needna been sae blate, man ; 
You might hae come to me yoursel, 

Andtauld me o' your state, man: 
Ye might hae come to me yoursel, 

Outwittens o' ony body, 
And made John Gowkston of the lairdf 

And kiss'd his bonnie lady." 

Then she pat siller in my purse. 

We drank wine in a coggie ; 
She feed a man to rub my horse, 

And wow ! but I was vogie. 
But I gat ne'er sa sair a fieg. 

Since I came frae my daddy. 
The laird came, rap rap, to the yett. 

When I was wi' his lady. 

Then she pat me below a chair, 

And happ'd me wi' a plaidie; 
But I was like to swarf wi' fear, 

And wish'd me wi* my daddy. 
The laird went out, he saw na me, 

I went when I was ready ; 
I promis'd, but I ne'er gade back 

To kiss his bonnie lady. 



AULD ROBIN GRAY. 

This air was formerly called The Bride-^ 
groom greets when the sun gangs down. The 
words are by Lady Ann Lindsay. — Burns. 

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the ky at 
hame, 

And a' the warld to sleep are gane ; 
The waes of my heart fa' in show'rs frae my ee, 

When my gudeman lyes sound by me. 

Young Jamie loo'd me wet,, and he sought me 
for his bride. 
But saving a crown he had naething beside ; 
To make that crown a pound, my Jamie gade 
to sea. 
And the crown and the pound were baith fou 
me 



138 



BURNS' WORKS. 



He had nae been awa a week but only tvva, 
When ray mother she fell sick, and the cow 
was stown awa ; 

My father brak his arm, and my Jamie at the sea. 
And auld Robin Gray came a courting me. 

My father coudna work, and my mother coudua 
spin, 
I toil'd day and night, but their bread I coud- 
na win ; 
Auld Rob raaintain'd them baith, and wi' tears 
in his ee, 
Said, " Jenny, for their sakes, O marry me." 

My heart it said nay, T look'd for Jamie back. 
But the wind it blew high, and the ship it 
was a wrack ; 

The ship it was a wrack, why didna Jenny die. 
And why do I live to say, waes me ? 

My father argued sair, tho' my mither didna 
speak. 
She look'd in my face till my heart was like 
to break ; 
So they gi'ed him my hand, tho' my heart was 
in the sea. 
And auld Robin Gray is gudeman to me. 

I hs.dna been a wife a week but only four. 
When sitting sae mournfully at the door, 

I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I coudna think it he, 
'Till he said, " I'm come back for to marry 
thee." 

sair did we greet, and mickle did we say. 
We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves 

away, 

1 wish I were dead ! but I'm no like to die, 

And why do I live to say, waes me ! 

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin, 
I darna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; 

But I'll do my best a gudewife to be. 
For auld Robin Grav Ls kind unto me. 



UP AND WARN A' WILLIE. 

The expression, " Up and warn a' Willie,'" 
alljudes to the Crantara, or warning of a High- 
.and Clan to arms. Not understanding this, 
the Lowlanders in the west and south say, " Up 
and waur them a\ &c. This edition of the 
song I got from Tom Niel,* of facetious fame, 
in Edinburgh. 

Up and warn a\ Willie, 

Warn, warn «' , 
To hear my canty Highland sang, 
Relate the thing I saw, PF/Z/Ze.— Burns. 



♦ Tom Niel was a carpenter in Edinburgh, and lived 
rhiefly ny making coffins. He was also Precentor, or 
Clerk, in one of tlie churches. He had a good strong 
voice, and was greatly distinguished bv his powers of 
mimicry, and his humorous manner of singing tiieold 
Scottish ballatls. 



When we gaed to the braes o' Mar, 

And to the wapon-shaw, Willie, 
Wi' true design to serve the king. 
And banish whigs awa, Willie. 
Up and warn a', Willie, 
Warn, warn a' ; 
For lords and lairds came there bedeen, 
And wou but they were braw, Willie 

But when the standard was set up, 

Right fierce the wind did blaw, Willie j 
The royal nit upon the tap 

Down to the ground did fa', Willie. 
Up and warn a', Willie, 
Wain, warn a' ; 
Then second-sighted Sandy said. 
We'd do nae gude at a', Willie. 

But when the array join'd at Perth, 

The bravest e'er ye saw, Willie, 
We didna doubt the rogues to rout, 
Restore our king and a', Willie. 
Up and warn a', Willie, 
Warn, warn a' ; 
The pipers play'd frae right to left, 
O whirry whigs awa, Willie. 

But when we march'd to Sherra-muir, 

And there the rebels saw, Willie, 
Brave Argyle attack'd our right, 
Our flank and front and a', Willie. 
Up and warn a', Willie, 
Warn, warn a' ; 
Traitor Huntly soon gave way, 
Seaforth, St. Clair and a', Willie. 

But brave Glengary on our right, 

The rebels' left did claw, Willie ; 
He there the greatest slaughter made 
That ever Donald savv, Willie. 
Up and warn a' Willie, 
Warn, warn a' ; 
And Whittam s — t his breeks for fear^ 
And fast did rin awa, Willie. 

For he ca'd us a Highland mob. 

And soon he'<l slay us a' Willie, 
But we chas'd him back to Stirling brig. 
Dragoons and foot and a', Willie. 
Up and warn a', Willie, 
Warn, warn a' ; 
At length we rallied on a hill. 

And briskly up did draw, Willie. 

But when Argyle did view our line. 

And them in order saw, Willie, 
He streight gaed to Dnmblane again. 
And back his left did druw, Willie 
Up and warn a'y Willie, 
Warn, warn a' ; 
Then we to Aiichteraider march*d. 
To wait a better fa', Willie. 

Now if ye spear wha wan the day, 
I've teU'd you what I saw, W-'li*. 



SONGS. 



139 



We baitli did fight and baith did beat, 
And baith did rin awa, Willie, 
Up and warn a', Willie, 
Warn, warn a' ; 
For second-sighted Sandie said. 

We'd do nae gude at a', Willie 



THE BLYTHSOME BRIDAL. 

I FIND the Blythsome Bridal in James Wat- 
Bon's Collection of Sci^ts Poems, printed at 
Edinburgh in 1706. 

This song has humou. and a felicity of ex- 
pression worthy of Ramsay, with even more 
than his wonted broadness and sprightly lan- 
guage. Tbe Witty Catalogue of Names, with 
their Historical Epithets, are done in the true 
Lowland Scottish taste of an age ago, when 
every householder was nicknamed either from 
'ome prominent part of his character, person, 
ar lands and housen, which he rented. Thus — 
*' Shape-fitted Roh.'^ " Thrawn-mou' d Rah 
d' the Dubs." " Rnarin Jock V the Swair." 
" Slaverin Simmie o' Todshaw.''^ " Souple 
Kate o' Irongray,'^ &c. &c. — Burns. 

Fy let us all to the bridal, 

For there will be lilting there ; 
For Jockie's to be married to Maggie, 

The lass wi' the gauden hair. 
And there will be lang-kail and pottage, 

And bannocks of barley-meal, 
And there will be good savvt herring. 
To relish a cog of good ale. 
Fy let us all to the bridal, 

For there ivill he lilting there. 
For Jockie's to he marry^d to 3Iaggie, 
The lass icith the gauden hair. 

And there will be Sandie the sutor, 

And ' WjU' with the meilile mow ; 
And there will be Tam the ' bluter,' 

With Andrew the tinkler, I trow. 
And there will be bow-legged Robbie, 

With thumbless Katie's goodman ; 
And there will be blue-cheeked Dowbie, 

And Lawrie the laird of the land. 
Fy let us all, &^c. 

And there will be sow-libber Patie, 

And plouckie-fac'd Wat i' the mill, 
Capper-nos'd Francie, and Gibbie, 

That wons in the how of the hill ; 
And there will be Alaster Sibbie, 

Wha in with black Bessy did mool, 
With sneevling Lillie, and Tibbia, 

The lass that stands aft on the stool. 
Fy let us all, 8fc. 

And Madge that was buckled to Steenie, 
And coft him [grey] breeks to his arse, 
Wha after was' hangit for stealing, 
Great mercy it happened na warse : 



And there will be gleed Geordle Janners, 
And Kirsh wi' the lily-white leg, 

Wha ' gade' to the south for manners. 
And bang'd up her wame in Mons Meg^' 

Fy let us all, S^c. 

And there will be Judan Mac'lawrie, 

And blinkin daffe Barbra ' Macleg,* 
Wi' fiae-lugged, sharny-fac'd Lawrie, 

And shangy-mou'd halucket Meg. 
And there will be happer-ars'd Nansy, 

And fairy-fac'd Flowrie be name. 
Muck Madie, and fat-hipped Lizie, 

The lass with the gauden wame 
Fy let us all, &c. 

And there will be girn-again Gibbie, 

With his giakit wife Jennie Bell, 
And Misle-shinn'd Mungo Macapie, 

The lad that was skipper himsel. 
There lads and lasses in pearlings 

Will feast in the heart of the ha', 
Oa sybows, and ryfarts, and carlings, 

That are baith sodden and raw. 
Fy let us all, §-c. 

And there will be fadges and brachen, 

With fouth of good gappoks of skate, 
Pow-sodie, and drammock, and crowdie. 

And callour nout-feet in a plate ; 
And there will be partans and buckies, 

Speldens and whytens enew. 
And singed sheep-heads, and a haggize, 

And scadlips to sup till ye spew. 
Fy let us all, ^c. 

And there will be lapper'd-milk kebbucks, 

And sowens, and farles, and baps, 
With swats, and well-scraped paunches. 

And brandy in stoups and in caps; 
And there will be meal-kail and castocks, 

With skink to sup till ye rive ; 
And rosts to rost on a brander. 

Of floiiks that were taken alive. 
Fy let us all, 8fc. 

Scrapt haddocks, wilks, dilse, and tangles. 

And a mill of good snishing to prie ; 
When weary with eating and drinking, 
We'll rise up and dance till we die. 
Then fy let us all to the bridal, 

For there will be lilting there ; 
For Jockie's to he marry'' d to Maggy, 
The lass with the gauden hair. 



O CAN YE LABOUR LEA, YOUNG 

MAN. 

This song has long been known among the 
inhabitants of Nithsdale and Galloway, where 
it is a great favourite. The first verse should 
be restored to its original state. 



140 



BURNS* WORKS. 



I FEED a lad at Roodsniass, 

Wi' siller pennies three ; 
When he came home at Martinmass, 

He could nae labour lea. 

canna ye labour lea, young lad, 
O canna ye labour lea ? 

Indeed, quo* he, my hand's out — 
An' up his graith packed he. 

This old way is the truest, for the terms, 
lioodmass is the hiring fair, and Hallowmass 
the first of the half year. — Burns. 

1 FEED a man at Martinmass, 

Wi' arle-pennies three ; 
But a' the faute I had to him, 

He could nae labour lea. 
O can ye labour lea, young man, 

O can ye labour lea ? 
Gae back the gate ye came again, 
Ye'se never scorn me. 

O clappin's gude in Febarwar, 

An' kissins sweet in May ; 
But what signifies a young man's ove 

An't dinna last for ay. 
O can ye, 8fc. 

O kissin is the key of luve. 

An clappin is the lock, 
An' makin-of's the best thing 

That e'er a young thing got. 
O can ye, ifc. 



IN THE GARB OF OLD GAUL. 

This tune was the composition of General 
Reid, and called by him The Highland, or 42c? 
Regiment s March. The words are by Sir 
Harry Erskine. — Burns. 

In the garb of old Gaul, wi' the fire of old 

Rome, 
From the heath-cover'd mountains of Scotia we 

come, 
Where the Romans endeavour'd our country to 

gain, 
But our ancestors fought, and they fought not 
in vain. 
Such our love of liberty, our country, and 

our laws, 
That like our ancestors of old, we stand 

by Freedom's cause ; 
We^ll bravely fight like heroes bold, for 

honour and applause, 
And defy the French, with all their art, 
to alter our laws. 

^o effeminate customs our sinews unbrace, 

No luxurious tables enervate our race. 

Our loud-sounding pipe bears the true martial 

strain. 
So do we the old Scottish valour retain. 
Such our love, ^c. 



We're tall as the oak on the mount of the valc; 
As swift as the roe which the hound doth assail; 
As the full-moon in autumn our shields do ap- 
pear, 
Minerva would dread to encounter our spear. 
Such our love, 8fc. 

As a storm in the ocean when Boreas blows, 
So are we enrag'd when we rush on our foes ; 
We sons of the mountains, tremendous as rocks, 
Dash the force of our foes with our thundering 
strokes. 

Such our love, 8fc. 

Quebec and Cape Breton, the pride of old 
France, 

In their troops fondly boasted till we did ad- 
vance ; 

But when our claymores they saw us produce, 

Their courage did fail, and they sued for a truce. 
Such our love, Sfc. 

In our realm may the fury of faction long cease, 
May our councils be wise, and our commerce 

increase ; 
And in Scotia's cold climate may each of us find, 
That our friends still prove true, and our beau- 
ties prove kind. 
Then we'll defend our liberty, our country 

and our laws. 
And teach our late posterity to fight in 

Freedoms cause. 
That they like our ancestors bold, 8fc. 



WOO'D AND MARRIED AND A*, 

Woo*d and married and a', 
Woo'd and married and o*, 

Was she not very weel aff. 

Was woo'd and married and o' / 

The bride came out o' the byre, 

And O as she dighted her cheeks, 
" Sirs, I'm to be married the night, 

And has nouther blanket nor sheets; 
Has nouther blankets nor sheets, 

Nor scarce a coverlet too ; 
The bride that has a' to borrow. 

Has e'en right meikle ado." 

Woo'd and married, ^, 

Out spake the bride's father, 

As he came in frae the pleugh, 
" O had yeie tongue, my daughter, 

And yese get gear enough ; 
The stirk that stands i' the tether. 

And our bra' basin'd yade, 
Will carry ye hame yere ct«'n ; 

What wad ye be at ye jade ?" 

Woo'd and mamedy |r*. 

Outspake the bride's mither, 

" What deil needs a' this pride ? 



SONGS 



HI 



I had nae a plack in my poucn 

That night I was a bride ; 
My gown was IJnsy-wooIsy, 

And ne'er a sark ava, 
And ye hae ribbons and buskins 

Mair tnan ane or twa." 

Woo'd and married, 8fc. 

^ What's the matter ?" quo' Willie, 

" Tho' we be scant o' claiths, 
We'll creep the nearer thegither, 

And we'll smoor a' the fleas ; 
Simmer is coming on, 

And we'U get teats o' woo ; 
And we'll get a lass o' our ain, 

And she'll spin claiths anew." 

Woo'd and married, Sfc. 

Outspake the bride's brither, 

As he came in wi' the kye, 
*' Puir Willie had ne'er hae ta'en ye. 

Had he ken t ye as weel as I ; 
For you're baith proud and saucy, 

And no for a puir man's wife. 
Gin I canna get a better, 

I'se never take^ne i' my life." 

Woo'd and married, §'c. 

Outspake the bride's sister, 

As she cyme in frae the byre, 
*' O gin I were but married, 

It's a' that I desire ; 
But we puir folk maun live single. 

And do the best we can ; 
I dinna care what I should want. 
If I could but get a man." 
Woo'd and married and a', 

Woo^d and married and a'. 
Was she not very weel off, 

Was woo'd and married and a' 



THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. 

A SUCCESSFUL imitation of an old song is 
really attended with less difficulty than to con- 
vince a blockhead that one of these yew d'esprits 
is a forgery. This fine ballad is even a more 
palpable imitation than Hardiknute. The 
manners indeed are old, but the language is of 
yesterday. Its author must very soon be dis- 
covered. — Burns. 

BY JANE ELLIOT. 

I've heard a lilting 
At the ewes milking, 
Lasses a' lilting before the break o* day, 
But uow I hear moaning 
On ilka green loaning, 
Since our brave forresters are a* wed away. 

At buchts in the morniug 
Kae blythe lads are scorning j 



The lasses are lonely, dowie and wae : 

Nae daffin, nae gabbing, 

But sighing and sabbing. 

Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her away* 

At e'en in the gloming 
Nae swankies are roaming, 
*Mang stacks with the lasses at bogle to play j 
For ilk ane sits drearie, 
Lamenting her dearie, 
The flow'rs o' the forest wh' are a* wed away. 

In har'st at the shearing 
Nae blythe lads are jeering, 
The Bansters are lyart, and runkled, and grey ; 
At fairs nor at preaching, 
Nae wooing, nae fleeching, 
Since our bra foresters are a' wed away. 

O dule for the order ! 
Sent our lads to the border ! 
The English for anes, by guile wan the day : 
The flow'rs of the forest 
Wha aye shone the foremost, 
The prime of the land lie cauld in the clay 



THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. 

8Y MRS. COCKBURN. 

I've seen the smiling of fortune beguiling, 
I've tasted her favours, and felt her decay ; 

Sweet is her blessing, and kind her caressing, 
But soon it is fled — it is fled far away. 

I've seen the forest adorned of the foremost, 
With flowers of the fairest, both pleasant and 
gay: 
FuU sweet was their blooming, their scent the 
air perfuming. 
But now they are wither'd, and a* wede awae 

I've seen the morning, with gold the hills a- 
dorning. 
And the red storm roaring, before the parting 
day; 
I've seen Tweed's silver streams, glittering in 
the sunny beams. 
Turn drumly and dark, as they rolled on their 
way. 

O fickle fortune : why this cruel sporting ? 
Why thus perplex us poor sons of a day ? 
Thy frowns cannot fear me, thy smiles cannot 
cheer me. 
Since the flowers of the forest are a* wed« 
awae. 



U2 



BURNS' WORKS. 



TIBBIE DUNBAR. 

Turj!—" Johnny M'Gill." 

This tune is said to be the composition of 
John M'Gill, fidJler, in Girvan. He called it 
after his own name Burns. 

O, WILT thou go wl' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ; 

O, wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dun- 
bar ; 
Wilt thou ride on a horse, or be drawn in a car. 

Or walk by my side, O sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? 

I carena thy daddie, his lands and his money, 
I carena thy kin, sae high and sae lordly : 

But say thou wilt hae me for better for waur, 
And come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dun- 
bar ! 



THIS IS NO MINE AIN HOUSE. 

The first half stanza is old, the rest is Ram- 
say's. The old woi-ds are : — Burns. 

O THIS is no mine ain house, 

My ain house, my ain house ; 
This is no mine ain house, 

I ken by the biggin o't. 

There's bread and cheese are my door-cheeks, 
Are my door-cheeks, are my door-cheeks ; 

There's bread and cheese are my door-cheeks ; 
And pan-cakes the riggin o*t. 

This is no my ain wean, 

My ain weau, my ain wean ; 
This is no my ain wean, 

I ken by the greetie o't. 

I'll tak the curchie afF my head, 

AfF my head, afF my head ; 
I'll tak the curchie aff my head, 

And row't about the feetie o't. 

The tune is an old Highland air, called Shuan 
truish willicjhan. 



THE GABERLUNZIE-MAN. 

The Gaberlunzie-Man is supposed to •jom- 
memorate an intrigue of James the Fifth. Mr. 
Callander of Craigforth, published some years 
ago, an edition of Chrisfs Kirk on the Green, 
and the Gaberlunzie-Man, with notes critical 
ind historical. James the Fifth is said to have 
been fond of Gosford, in Aberlady Parish, and 
that it was suspected by his cotemporaries, that 
in his fre(iiieiit excursions to that part of the 
country he had other purposes in view besides 
golfing and archery. Three favourite ladies 



Sandilands, Weir, and Oliphant, ^^one of them 
resided at Gosford, and the others in the neigh- 
bourhood), were occasionally visited by their 
royal and gallant admirer, which gave rise to 
the following satirical advice to his Majesty, 
from Sir David Lindsay, of the Mount, Lord 
Lyon. 

Sow not your seed on Sandylands, 
Spend not your strength in Weir^ 
And ride not on an Elephant, 
For spoiling o' your gear. — Burns. 



The pawky auld carle came o'er the lee, 
Wi' many good e'ens and days to me, 
Saying, Goodwife, for your courtesie, 

Will ye lodge a silly poor man ! 
The night was cauld, the carle was wat, 
And down ayont the ingle he sat ; 
My daughter's shoulders he 'gan to clap, 

And cadgily ranted and sang. 

O wow ! quo' he, were I as free, 
As first when I saw this country, 
How blyth and merry wad I be ! 

And I wad never think lang. 
He grew canty, and she grew fain ; 
But little did her auld minny ken 
What thir slee twa togither were say*n, 

When wooing they were sae thrang. 

And O ! quo' he, ann ye were as black 
As e'er the crown of my dadj's hat, 
'Tis I wad lay thee by my back. 

And awa' wi' me thou ^^hou'd gang. 
And O ! quo' she, ann I were as white, 
As e'er the snaw lay on the dike, 
I'd dead me braw, and lady lilve, 

And awa' with thee I'd gang. 

Between the twa was made a plot ; 
They raise awee before the cock, 
And wilily they shot the lock, 

And fast to the bent are they gane. 
Up the morn the auld wife raise. 
And at her leisure put on her claise ; 
Syne to the servant's bed she gaes. 

To speer for the silly poor man. 

She gaed to the bed where the beggar lay, 
The strae was cauld, he was away. 
She clapt her hand, cry'd Waladay, 

For some of our gear will be gane. 
Some ran to coffers, and some to kists, 
But nought was stown that cou'd be mist, 
She (lanc'd her lane, cry'd, Praise be blest, 

I have lodg'd a leal poor man. 

Since nathing's awa', as we can learn, 
The kirn's to kirn, and milk to earn, 
Gae butt the hou-e, lass, and vv%i.keu my baim 
And bid her come quickly ben. 



SONGS. 



143 



The servant gatle where the daughter lay, 
The sheets wjts cauld, she was away, 
And fast to her gaodwife gan say. 
She's aff with the Gaberluczie-nian. 

O fy gar ride, and fy gar rln, 

And haste ye find these traytors again ; 

For she's be burnt, and he's be slaiu, 

The wearifu' Gaberlunzie-man. 
Some rade upo' horse, some ran a fit, 
The wife was wood, and out o' her wit : 
She cou'd na gang, nor yet cou'd she eit, 

But ay she cuts'd and she ban'd. 

Mean time far hind out o'er the lea, 

Fu' snug in a glen, where nane cou'd see. 

The twa, with kindly sport and glee. 

Cut frae a new cheese a whang : 
The priving was good, it pleas'd them baith, 
To lo'e her for ay, he gae her his aith ; 
Quo' she, to leave thee I will be laith, 

My winsome Gaberlunzie-man. 

O kend my minny I were wi' you, 
lllsardly wad she crook her mou. 
Sic a poor man she'd never trow. 

After the Gaherlunzie-man. 
My dear, quo' he, ye're yet o'er young, 
And ha' nae lear'd the beggar's tongue. 
To follow me frae town to town, 

And carry the Gaberlunzie on. 

Wi' cauk and keel I'll win your bread, 

And spindles and whorles for them wha need, 

Whilk is a gentle trade indeed. 

To carry the Gaberlunzie — O. 
I'll bow my leg, and crook my knee. 
And draw a black clout o'er my eye, 
A cripple or blind they will ca me, 

Wliile we shall be merry and sing. 



oONNIE COUP. 

This satirical song was composed to comme- 
morate General Cope's defeat at Preston-Pans, 
in 1 745, when he marched against the clans. 

The air was the tune of an old song, of which 
I have heard some verses, but now only remem- 
ber the title, which was. 

Will ye go to the coals in the morning. 
Burns. 



Coup sent a letter frae Dunbar, 
Charlie, meet me an ye dare. 
And I'll learn you the art of war. 
If you'll meet wi' me in the morning. 

Hey Jomiie Coup, are ye ujaking yet ? 

Or are your drums a-heatlng yet? 

If ye were icaldug I woud wait 

To gang to tlie coals i' the morning. 



When Charlie look'd the letter upon, 
He drew his sword the scabbard from. 
Come follow me, my merry merry men. 
And we'll meet wi' Coup i' the morningo 
Hey Jonnie Coup, Sfc. 

Now, Jonnie, be as good as your word, 
Come let us try both fire and sword, 
And dinna rin awa* like a frighted bird. 
That's chas'd frae it's nest in the morning 
Hey Jonnie Coup, S^c. 

When Jonnie Coup he heard of this. 
He thought it wadna be amiss 
To hae a horse in readiness, 
To fiie awa' i' the morning. 

Hey Jonnie Coup, 8fc. 

Fy now Jonnie get up and rin, 
The Highland bagpipes makes a din, 
It's best to sleep in a hale skin. 
For 'twill be a bluddie morning. 

Hey Jonnie Coup, 8fc. 

When Jonnie Coup to Berwick came, 
They spear'd at him, where's a' your men. 
The deil confound me gin I ken," 
For I left them a' i' the morning. 

Hey Jonnie Coup, Sfe. 

Now, Jonnie, trouth ye was na blate, 
To come wi' the news o' your ain defeat, 
And leave your men in sic a strait. 
So early in the morning. 

Hey Jonnie Coup, SfC. 

Ah ! faith, co' Jonnie, I got a fleg, 
With their claymores and philabegs. 
If I face them again, deil break my legs, 
So I wish you a good morning. 

Hey Jonnie Coup, SfC. 



A WAUKRIFE MINNIE. 

I PICKED up this old song and tune from a 
country girl in Nithsdale, — 1 never met with it 
elsewhere in Scotland Burns. 

Whare are you gaun, my bonnie lass, 

Wliere are you gaun, my hinnie, 
She answer'd me right saucilie, 

An errand for my minnie. 

O whare live ye, my bonnie lass, 

O whare live ye, my hinnie. 
By yon burn- side, gin ye maun ken, 

In a wee bouse wi' my minnie. 

But I foor up the glen at een. 

To see my bonnie lassie ; 
And lang before the gray mora cans. 

She was na hauf sae sauci>. 



144 



BURNS' WORKS. 



weary fa' tKe wauTcrife cock, 
And the foumart lay his crawin ! 

He wauken'd the auld wife frae her sleep, 
A wee blink or the dawin. 

An angry wife I wat she raise. 

And o'er the bed she brought her j 

And wi' a mickle hazle rung 

She made her a weel pay'd dochter 

O fare thee weel, my bonnie lass ! 

O fare thee weel, my hinnie ! 
Thovi art a gay and a bonnie lass, 

But thou hast a waukrife minnie.* 



TULLOCHGORUM. 

This, first of songs, is the master-piece of 
my old triend Skinner. He was passing the day 
at the town of Ellon, I think it was, in a friend's 
house whose name was Montgomery. — Mrs. 
Montgomery observing, en passant, that the 
beautiful reel of Tullochiiorum wanted words, 
she begged them of Mr. Skinner, who gratified 
her wishes, and the wishes of every lover of 
Scottish song, in this most excellent ballad. 

These particulars I had from the author's 
Bon, Bishop Skinner, at Aberdeen. — Burns. 

Come gie's a sang, Montgomery cry'd, 
And lay your disputes all aside, 
What signifies't for folks to chide 

For what was done before them : 
Let Whig and Tory all agree. 

Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory, 
Whig and Tory all agree. 

To drop their Whig- raig-morum. 
Let Whig and Tory all agree 
To spend the night wi' mirth and glee, 
And cheerful sing alang wi' me, 

The Reel o' Tullochgorum. 

O, Tullochgorum's my delight, 
It gars us a' in ane unite. 
And ony sumph that keeps up spite, 
In conscience I abhor him : 
For blythe and cheerie we'll be a', 

BIythe and cheerie, blythe and cheerie, 
Blythe and cheerie we'll be a', 
And make a happy quorum, 
For blythe and cheerie we'll be a'. 
As lang as we hae breath to draw, 
And dance till we be like to fa* 

The Reel o' Tullochgorum. 



What needs there be sae great a fraise, 
Wi' dringing dull Italian lays, 
I wadna gie our ain Strathspeys 

For half a hunder score o' them. 
They're dowf and dowie at the best, 
Dowf and dowie, dowf and dowie, 
Dowf and dowie at the best, 
Wi' a' their variorum ; 
They're dowf and dowie at the best. 
Their allegros and a' the rest, 
They canna please a Scottish taste, 

Compar'd wi' Tullochgorum. 

Let warldly worms their minds opprew 
Wi' fears o' want and double cess, 
And sullen sots therasells distress 
Wi' keeping up decorum : 
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit. 

Sour and sulky, sour and sulky. 
Sour and sulky shall we sit 
Like old philosophorum ! 
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, 
Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit. 
Nor ever try to shake a fit 

To the Reel o' Tullochgorum * 

May choicest blessings ay attend 
Each honest, open-hearted friend, 
And calm and quiet be his end, 

And a' that's good watch o'er him ; 
May peace and plenty be his lot. 

Peace and plenty, peace and plenty. 
Peace and plenty be his lot, 

And dainties a great store o' them } 
May peace and plenty be his lot, 
Unstain'd by any vicious spot. 
And may he never want a groat, 

That's fond o' Tullochgorum! 

But for the sullen frumpish fool. 
That loves to be oppression's tool, 
May envy gnaw his rotten soul. 

And discontent devour him j 
May dool and sorrow be his chance, 

Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow, 
Dool and sorrow be his chance, 
And nane say, wae's me for him ! 
May dool and sorrow be his chance, 
Wi' a' the Ills that come frae France^ 
Wha e'er he be that winna dance 
The Reel o' Tullochgorum. 



« The peasantry have a verse superior to some of 
those recovered by Burns, which is worthy of notice. 
>-.Ed. 

«• O though thy hair was gowden weft. 

An' thy lips o' drapping hinnie. 
Thou hast gotten the clog that winna clkig 

For a' you're waukrife minnie." 



JOHN O' BADENYON. 

This excellent song is also the compositiOB 
of my worthy friend, old Skinner, at Linshart, 
— Burns. 

When first I cam to be a man 

Of twenty years or so, 
I thought myself a handsome youth, 
And fain the world would know J 



SONGS. 



145 



In best attire I stept abroad, 

With spirits brisk and gay, 
And here and there and every where 

Was like a morn in May ; 
No care I had nor fear of want, 

But rambled up and down, 
And for a beau I might have past 

In country or in town ; 
I still was pleas'd where'er I went, 

And when I was alone, 
T tun'd my pipe and pleas'd myself 

Wi* John o' Badenyon. 

Now in the days of youthful prime 

A mistress I must find. 
For love, I heard, gave one an air, 

And ev'n improved the mind : 
On Phillis fair above the rest 

Kind fortune fixt my eyes. 
Her piercing beauty struck my heart, 

And she became my choice ; 
To Cupid now with hearty prayer 

I oiBer'd many a vow ; 
4nd danc'd and sung, and sigh'd, and swore. 

As other lovers do ; 
But, when at last 1 breath'd my flame, 

I found her cold as stone ; 
I left the girl, and tun'd my pipe 

To John o' Badenyon. 

When love had thus my heart beguil'd 

With foolish hopes and vain ; 
To friendship's port I steer'd my course, 

And laugh'd at lovers' pain ; 
A friend I got by lucky chance, 

'Twas something like divine, 
An honest friend's a precious gift. 

And such a gift was mine ; 
And now whatever might betide, 

A happy man was I, 
In any strait I knew to whom 

I fieely might apply ; 
A strait soon came : my friend I try'd ; 

He heard, and spurn'd my moan ; 
I hy'd me home, and tun'd my pipe 

To John o' Badenyon. 

Methought I should be wiser next. 

And would a patriot turn, 
Began to doat on Johnny Wilkes, 

And cry up Parson Home.* 
Their manly spirit I admir'd, 

And prais'd their noble zeal. 
Who had with flaming tongue and pen 

Maintain'd the public weal ; 
But e'er a mouth or two had past, 

I found myself betray'd, 
'Twas se//"and parti/ after all, 

For a' the stir they made ; 
At last I saw tho factious knaves 

Insult the very throne, 
I curs'd them a', and tun'd my pipe 

To John o' Badenyon. 



« This song was composed when Wilkes, Home, 
tc. were making a noisip about liberty. 



What next to do I mus'd a while, 

Still hoping to succeed, 
I pitch'd on books for company, 

And gravely try'd to read : 
I bought and borrow'd every where. 

And study'd night and day, 
Nor miss'd what dean or doctor wrote 

That happen'd in my way : 
Philosophy I now esteem'd 

The ornament of youth. 
And carefully through many a page 

I hunted after truth. 
A thousand various schemes I try'd, 

And yet was pleas'd with none, 
I threw them by, and tun'd my pipe 

To John o' Badenyon. 

And now ye youngsters every where, 

That wish to make a show. 
Take heed in time, nor fondly hope 

For happiness below ; 
What you may fancy pleasure here, 

Is but an empty name. 
And girls, and friends, and books, and sO; 

You'll find them all the same ; 
Then be advised and warning take 

From such a man as me ; 
I'm neither Pope nor Cardinal, 

Nor one of high degree ; 
You'll meet displeasure every where . 

Then do as I have done. 
E'en tune your pipe and please yourselves 

With John o' Badenyon. 



THE LAIRD OF COCKPEN. 

Here is a verse of this lively old song that 
used to be sung after these printed ones.— 
Burns. 

O, WHA has lien wi' our Lord yestreen i' 
O, wha has lien wi' our Lord yestreen ? 
In his soft down bed, O, twa fowk were the sted, 
An' whare lay the chamber maid, lassie, yes. 
treen ? 



COCKPEN. 

O, WHEN she came ben she bobbed fu' law, 
O, when she came ben she bobbed fu' law, 
And when she came ben she kiss'd Cockpen, 
And syne deny'd she did it at a'. 

And was na Cockpen right saucie with a*, 
And was na Cockpen right saucie with a*, 
In leaving the daughter of a Lord, 
And kissin a collier lassie, an' a' ? 

O never look down my lassie, at a , 
O never look down my lassie, at a', 
Thy lips are as sweet, and thy figure complete, 
As the finest dame in castle or ha'. 
N 



146 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Tho' thou has nae silk and holland sae sma', 
Tho' thou has nae silk and holland sae sma', 
Thy coat and thy sark are thy ain handy-wark, 
And Lady Jean was never sae braw ! 



The following set of this song Is now %2ry 
common. It is ascribed to the authoress of the 
novel of " ]\Iarriage :" 

THE LAIRD OF COCKPEN. 
Tune—" The Laird of Cockpen." 

The L'aird o' Cockpen, lie is proud an' he's 

g/eat ; 
His mind is ta'en up wi' the things of the state : 
He wanted a wife his braw house to keep ; 
But favour wi' wooin' was fashions to seek. 

Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell ; 
At his table -head he thought she'd look well ; 
M'Leish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee, 
A pennyless lass wi' a lang pedigree. 

His wig was weel pouther'd, as guid as when 

new. 
His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue ; 
He put on a ring, — a sword, — and cock'd hat, — 
And wha' could refuse the Laird wi' a' that ? 

He took the grey mare and rade cannalie ; 
And rapp'd at the yett o* Claverse-ha' Lee : 
Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben : 
She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cockpen. 

Mistress Jean she was makin' the elder-flower 

wine : 
" And what brings the Laird at sic a like time ?" 
She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown. 
Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' 

down. 

And when she cam' ben, he booed fu' low ; 
And what was his errand he soon let her know ; 
Amazed was the Laird, when the lady said Na', 
And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'. 

Dumbfounder'd he was, but nae sigh did he gie ; 
He mounted his mare, and rade caunilie : 
And aften he thought, as he gaed thro' the glen, 
She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen. 

And now that the Laird his exit h;id made, 
Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said : 
Oh for ane I'll get better, it's waur I'.Tl get ten, 
I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen. 

Neist time that the Laird and the lady were seen, 
They were gaun arm in arm to the kirk on the 

green ; 
Now she sits in the Ha' like a weel-tappit hen ; 
^nt as yet there's nae chickeps appeared at 

Cockpen. 



CA' THE EWES TO THE KNOWESs. 

This beautiful song is in the true old Scoteli 
taste, yet I do not know that either air or wordt 
were in print before — Burns. 

Ca* the ewes to the knowes, 

Ca them whare the heather grows 

Ca' them whare the burnie rowes, 
My bonnie dearie. 

As I gaed down the water-side, 

There I met my shepherd lad, 
He row'd me sweetly in his plaid. 

An* he ca'd me his dearie. 
Ca the ewes, 8fc. 

Will ye gang down the water-side. 
And see the waves sae sweetly glide^ 

Beneath the hazels spreading wide, 
The moon it shines fu' clearly. 
Ca' the ewes, §*c. 

I was bred up at nae sic school, 
My shepherd lad, to play the fool, 

And a' the day to sit in dool, 
And Haebody to see me. 
Ca' the ewes, Sfc. 

Ye sail get gowns and ribbons meet, 
Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet. 

And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep. 
And ye sail be my dearie. 
Ca' the ewes, 8fc. 

If ye'U but stand to what ye've said, 
I'se gang wi' you my shepherd-lad, 

And ye may rowe me in your plaid, 
And I sail be your dearie. 
Ca' the ewes, Sfc. 

While waters wimple to the sea ; 

While day blinks in the lift sae hie; 
'Till clay-cauld death sail blin my e'e, 

Ye sail be my dearie.* 

Co* the ewes, 8fc. 



LADIE MARY ANN. 

The starting verse should be restored .— 
Burns. 

" Lady Mary Ann gaed out o' her bower^ 
An' she found a bonnie rose new i' the flower ; 

As she kiss'd its ruddy lipsi drapping wi' dew. 
Quo' she, ye're nae sae sweet as my Charlie'* 
mou." 



• Mrs. Bums inforiTied the Editor that the last' 
of this song was written by Bums. 



SONGS. 



147 



LADIE MARY ANN. 

O Lady Mary Ann looks o'er the castle wa', 
She saw three ^"^"nie boys playing at the ba*, 
The youngest ne was the flower amang them a' ; 
My bonnie laddie's young, but le's growin' 

yet. 

" O father, O father, an' yt think it fit, 
We'll send him a year to the college yet ; 
We'll sew a green ribbon round about his hat, 
And that will let them ken he's to marry yet." 

Lady Mary Ann was a flower in the dew, 
Sweet was its smell, and bonnie was its hue. 
And the langer it blossomed, the sweeter it grew ; 
For the lily in tht hud will be bonnier yet. 

Young Charlie Coch»an was the sprout of an 

aik, 
Bonnie, and bloomiag, and straight was its make, 
The sun took delight to shine for its sake, 
And it will be the brag o' the foi'est yet. 

The simmer is gane, when the leaves they were 

green ; 
And the days are awa that we hae seen ; 
But far better days, I trust, will come again. 
For ray bonnie laddie's young, but he's grow- 
in' yet. 



KILLYCRANKY. 

The battle of Killycranky was the last stand 
made by the Clans for James, after his abdica- 
tion. Here Dundee fell in the moment of vic- 
tory, and with him fell the hopes of the party. 
— General Mackay, when he found the High- 
landers did not pursue his flying army, said, 
" Dundee must be killed, or he never would 
have overlooked this advantage." — A great stone 
marks the spot where Dundee fell. — Burns. 

Clavers and his highland-men. 

Came down upo' the raw, man. 
Who being stout, gave mony a clout, 

The lads began to claw, then. 
With sword and terge into their hand, 

Wi' which they were nae slaw, man, 
Wi' mony a fearful heavy sigh, 

The lads began to claw, then. 

O'er bush, o'er bank, o'er ditch, o'er stank, 

She flang amang them a', man ; 
The butter-box got mony knocks. 

Their riggings paid for a' then ; 
They got their paiks, wi' sudden straiks, 

Which to their grief they saw, man; 
Wi' clinkura clankum o'er their crowns, 

The lads began to fa' then. 

Hur skipt about, hur leapt about, 
And flang amang th?m a', man ; 



The English blades got broken heads, 
Their crowns were cleav'd in twa theifc 

The durk and door made their last hour. 
And prov'd their final fa, man ; 

They thought the devil had been there, 
That play'd them sic a paw then. 

The solemn league and covenant 

Came whigging up the hills, man, 
Thought highland trews durst not refuse 

For to subscribe their bills then : 
In Willie's name * they thought nae ane 

Durst stop their course at a', man ; 
But hur nane sell, wi' mony a knock, 

Cry'd, Furich-whiggs, awa', man. 

Sir Evan Du, and his men true, 

Came linking up the brink, man ; 
The Hogan Dutch they feared such, 

They bred a horrid stink, then. 
The true Maclean, and his fierce men, 

Game in amang them a', man ; 
Nane durst withstand his heavy hand. 

All fled and ran awa' then. 

0/i' on a ri, oh* on a ri, 

Why should she lose king Shames, man ? 
Oh' rig in di, oh* rig in di, 

She shall break a' her banes then j 
With furichinish, an* stay a while, ' 

And speak a word or twa, man. 
She's gi' a straike, out o'er the neck. 

Before ye win awa' then. 

O fy for shame, ye're three for ane, 

Hur nane-sell's won the day, man ; 
King Shame's red-coats should be liuj»g u^ 

Because they ran awa' then : 
Had bent their brows, like highlnn*' b-nv^t 

And made as lang a stayt man. 
They'd sav'd their king, tha*. sacrd *^to^,. 

And Willie'd ' run' awa* the&. 



THE EWIE Wr Tire CEOOFJT HQj.^ M 

Another excelleri p-jp^ ^f old Skiuner'% — 
Burns. 

Were I but ab'e io rehearse 
My Ewie's praise \o proper verse, 
I'd sound it i.o,.ch m loud and fierce 

As e-'er p'p^.r's drone could blaw ; 
The Ew'.e wr,' *hr; ciookit h»rn, 
Wh?, b if' k j»t her might hae sworn 
Sic 9 F.Vi r/as never born, 

TIe.Te:ibout nor far awa', 
Si« 't Er/e was never born, 

flerijabout nor far awa'. 

I i.t iFjr needed tar nor keil 
To riark her upo' hip or heel, 



* Prince of Oransre, 



148 BURNS' 


WORKS. 


Her crooklt horn did as weel 


The loss o' her wc cou d hae bom, 


To ken her by amo' them a' ; 


Had fair strae-death ta*un her awa*. 


She never threaten'd scab nor rot, 


The loss o' her we cou'd hae born, &c. 


But keepit ay her aiu jog trot, 




Baith to the fauld and to the coat, 


But thus, poor thing, to lose her life, 


"Was never sweir to lead nor caw, 


Aneath a bleedy villain's knife. 


Baith to the fauld and to the coat, &c. 


I'm really fley't that our guidwife 




Will never win aboon't ava: 


Cauld nor hunger never dang her, 


! a' ye bards benorth Kinghorn, 


Wind nor wet could never vvrang hev, 


Call your muses up and mourn. 


Anes she lay an ouk and langer. 


Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn. 


Furth aneath a wreath o' snaw 


Stown frae's, and fellt and a* ! 


Whan ither Ewies lap the dyke, 


Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn, &c. 


And eat the kail for a' the tyke, 




My Ewie never ])lay'd the like, 

But tyc'd about the barn wa' ; 






My Ewie never play'd the like, &c. 


ANDRO Wr HIS CUTTIE GUN. 


A better or a thriftier beast, 


This blythsorae song, so full of Scottish hu- 


Nae honest man could weel hae wist, 


mour and convivial merriment, is an intimate 


For silly thing she never mist. 


favourite at Bridal Trystes, and Huuse-heat- 


To hae ilk year a lamb or twa* ; 


ings. It contains a spirited picture of a country 


The first she had I gae to Jock, 


ale-house touched off with all the lightsome gaiety 


To be to him a kind o' stock. 


so peculiar to the rural muse of Caledonia, when 


And now the laddie has a flock 


at a fair. 


0' mair nor thirty head ava' ; 




And now the laddie has a flock, &c. 


Instead ©f the line. 


I lookit aye at even' for her. 


" Girdle cakes weel toasted brown," 


Lest raischanter shou'd come o'er her, 


I have heard it sung. 


Or the fowmart might devour her. 




Gin the beastie bade awa ; 


" Knuckled cakes weel brandert brown." 


My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, 




j Well deserv'd baith girse and corn, 


These cakes are kneaded out with the knuckles, 


Sic a Ewe was never born, 


and toasted over the red embers of wood on a 


1 Here-about nor far awa. 


gridiron. They are remarkably fine, and have 


1 Sic a Ewe was never born, &c. 


a delicate relish when eaten warm with ale. 


1 


On winter market nights the landlady heats 


j Yet last ouk, for a' my keeping. 


them, and drops them into the quaigh to warm 


1 (Wha can speak it without weeping ?) 


the ale : 


i A villain cam when I was sleeping. 




' Sta' my Ewie, horn and a' ; 


" Weel does the cannie Kimmer ken 


1 I sought her sair upo' the morn. 


To gar the swats gae glibber down." 


And down aneath a buss o' thorn 


BlTRNS. 


1 I got my Ewie's crookit horn, 
j But my Ewie was awa'. 






I got my Ewie's crookit horn, &c. 


BLYTH WAS SHB 


! gin I had the loioi that did it, 
Sworn I have as well as said it, 
Tho' a' the warld should forbid it, 


Blyth, blyth, blyth was she, 

Blyth was she butt and ben ; 
And weel she loo'd a Hawick gill, 


I wad gie his neck a thra' : 


And leugh to see a tappit hen. 
She took me in, and set me down, 


I never met wi' sic a turn, 
As this sin ever I was born, 


And heght to keep me lawing-free ; 


My Ewie wi' the crookit horn. 
Silly Ewie stown awa'. 


But, cunning carling that she was, 
She gart me birle my bawbie. 


My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, kc. 


We loo'd the liquor well enough ; 




But waes my heart my cash was done 


! had she died o' crook or cauld. 


Before that I had quench'd my drowth. 


As Ewies do when they grow auld. 


And laith I was to pawn my shoon. 


It wad nae been, by mony fauld. 


When we had three times toom'd our stoup, 


Sae sare a heart to nane o's a* i 


And the niest chappin new begun, 


For a' the claith that we hae worn, 


Wha started in to hetze our hope. 


Frae her and her's sae aften shorn, 

1 


But Andro' wi' his cutty gun. 

1 



SONGS. 



149 



Vhe carling brought her kebbuck ben, 

With girdle-cakes weel-toasted brown, 
Well does the canny kimmer ken, 

They gar the swats gae glibber down. 
We ca'd the bicker aft about ; 

Till dawning we ne'er jee'd our bun, 
And ay the cleanest drinker out 

Was Andro' wi' his cutty gun. 

He did like ony mavis sing. 

And as i in his oxter sat, 
He ca'd me ay his bonny thing, 

And mony a sappy kiss I gat : 
I hae been east, I hae been west, 

I hae been far ayont the sun ; 
But the blythest lad that e'er I saw 

Was Andro wi' his cutty gun ! 



HUGHIE GRAHAM. 

There are several editions of this ballad.— 
This, here inserted, is from oral tradition in 
Ayrshire, where, when T was a boy, it was a 
popular song.— It originally, had a simple old 
tune, which I have forgotten. — Borns. 

Our lords are to the mountains gane, 

A hunting o' the fallow deer. 
And they have gripet Hughie Graham 

For stealing o' the bishop's mare. 

And they have tied him hand and foot, 
, And led him up, thro' Stirling town ; 
The lads and lasses met him there, 

Cried, Hughie Graham thou'rt a loun. 

O lowse my right hand free, he says, 
And put my braid sword in the same ; 

He's no in Stirhng town this day. 

Dare tell the tale to Hughie Graham. 

Up then bespake the brave Whitefoord, 

As he sat by the bishop's knee. 
Five hundred white stots I'll gie you 

If ye'U let Hughie Graham free. 

baud your tongue, the bishop says, 
And wi' your pleading let me be ; 

For tho' ten Grahams were in his coat, 
Hughie Graham this day shall die. 

U'p then bespake the fair Whitefoord, 
As she sat by the bishop's knee ; 

Five hundred white pence I'll gie you, 
If ye'll gie Hughie Graham to me. 

baud your tongue now lady fair, 

And wi' your pleading let it be ; 
Altho' ten Grahams were in his coat. 

Its for my honor he maun die. 



They've ta'en him to the gallows kuowe. 

He looked to the gallows tree, 
Yet never colour left his cheek, 

Nor ever did he blink his ee. 

At length he looked round about, 

To see whatever he could spy : 
And there he saw his auld father, 

And he was weeping bitterly. 

O baud your tongue, my father dear, 
And wi' your weeping let it be ; 

Thy weeping's sairer on my heart, 
Than a' that they can do to me. 

And ye may gie my brc^her John, 

My sword that's bent in the middle cletfi 

And let him come at twelve o'clock. 
And see me pay the bishop's mare. 

And ye may gie my brother James 

My sword that's bent in the middle broWtti 

And bid him come at four o'clock. 
And see his brother Hugh cut down. 

Remember me to Maggy my wife, 

The niest time ye gang o'er the moor, 

Tell her she staw tne o.shop's mare. 
Tell her she was the bishop's whore. 

And ye may tell my kith and kin, 
I never did disgrace their blood ; 

And when they meet the bishop's cloak, 
To mak it shorter by the hood. 



LORD RONALD, MY SON. 

This air, a very favourite one in Ayrshiie, 
is evidently the original of Lochaber. In this 
manner most of our finest more modern airs have 
had their origin. Some early minstrel, or mu- 
sical shepherd, composed the simple artless ori- 
ginal air, which being picked up by the more 
learned musician, took the improved for tim 
bears. — Burns. 

The name is commonly sounded Ronald, ia 
Randal. 

Where have ye been hunting, 

Lord Randal, my son ? 
Where have ye been hunting. 

My handsome young man ? 
In yon wild wood, Oh mother, 

So make my bed soon : 
For I'm wae, and I'm weary, 

And fain would lie down. 

Where gat ye your dinner. 

Lord Randal, my son ? 
Where gat ye your dinner. 

My handsome young man ? 



150 



BURNS' WORKS. 



O, I dined with my true love, 
So make my bed soon : 

For I'm wae, and I'm weary, 
And fain would lie down. 

O, what was your dinner, 

Lord Randal, my son ? 
O, what was your dinner, 

My handsome young man ? 
Eels boiled in broo, mother ; 

So make my bed soon : 
For I'm wae, and I'm weary. 

And fain would lie down. 

O, where did she find them. 

Lord Randal, my son ? 
O, where did she catch them, 

My handsome young man ? 
'Neath the bush of brown brekan, 

So make my bed soon : 
For I'm wae, and I'm weary 

And fain would lie down. 

Now, where are your bloodhounds, 

Lord Randal, my son ? 
What came of your bloodhounds, 

My handsome young man ? 
They swelled and died, mother, 

And sae maun I soon : 
O, I am wae, and I'm weary, 

And fain would lie down. 

I fear you are poisoned, 

Lord Randal, my son ! 
I fear you are poisoned, 

My handsome young man ! 

yes I am poisoned, — 
So make my bed soon : 

1 am sick, sick at heart. 

And I now must lie down. 



LOGAN BRAES. 

There were two old songs to this tune ; one 
ef them contained some striking lines, the other 
2ntered into the sweets of wooing rather too 
freely for modern poetry. — It began, 

" Ae simmer night on Logan braes, 

I helped a bonnie lassie on wi' her claes. 
First wi' her stocldns, an' syne wi' her shoori, 
But she gied me the glaiks when a' was done." 

The other seems older, but it is not so charac- 
teristic of Scottish courtship. 

•* Logan Water's wide and deep. 
An' laith am I to weet my feet ; 
But gif ye'll consent to gang wi' me, 
I'll hire ahoree to carry thee." 

Burns. 



ANOTHER SET. 

LOGAN WATER. 

BY JOHN MAYNE. 

By Logan's streams that rin sae deep, 
Fu' aft', wi' glee, I've herded sheep, 
I've herded sheep, or gather 'd slaes, 
Wi' my dear lad, on Logan Braes : 
But, wae's my heart, thae days are ga.n9. 
And, fu' o' grief, I herd my lane ; 
Whi le my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far , far frae me and Logan Braes ! 

Nae mair at Logan Kirk will he, 
Atween the )ireachings, meet wi' me— 
Meet wi' me, or, when it's mirk, 
Convoy me hame frae Logaa Kirk ! 
I weil may sing, tliae days are gane-— 
Frae Kirk and Fair I come my lane, 
While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan Braes ! 



O'ER THE MOOR AMANG THE 
HEATHER. 

This song is the composition of a Jean Glover, 
a girl who was not only a w — e, but also a thief; 
and in one or other character has visited mos4 
of the Correction Houses in the West.— She 
was born, I believe, in Kilmarnock : — I took 
the song down from her singing as she was 
strolling through the country, with a slight'Of«j 
hand blackguard. — Burns. 

Comin' thro' the Craigs o' Kyle, 
Amang the bonnie blooming heather, 
There I met a bonnie lassie. 
Keeping a' her yowes thegither. 

O'er the moor amang the heather^ 

O'er the moor amang the heather. 

There I met a bonnie lassie, 

Keeping a' her yoives thegither. 

Says I, my dearie, where is thy hame, 
In moor or dale, pray tell me whether? 
She says, I tent the fleecy flocks 
That feed amang the blooming heather, 
O'er the moor, 8fc, 

We laid us down upon a bank, 
Sae warm and sunny was the weather, 
She left her flocks at large to rove 
Amang the bounie blooming heather. 

O^er the moor, Sj-c. 

While thus we lay she sang a sang. 
Till echo rang a mile and farther. 
And ay the burden o' the sang 
Was — o'er the moor amang the heather. 
O'er the moor, ^c. 



SONGS. 



151 



S^.i charm'd my 'neart, and aye sinsj-se, 
I could na think on any ither : 
By sea. and sky she shall be mine ! 
The bonnie lass amang the heather. 

O'er the moor, §*c. 



BONNIE DUNDEE. 

WHARE gat ye that hauver-meal bannock, 
O silly blind bodie, O dinna ye see ! 

1 got it frae a sodger laddie, 

Between Saint Johnstone and bonnie Dundee. 
O gin I saw the laddie that gae me't ! 

Aft has he doudl'd me on his knee : 
May heav'n protect my bonnie Scotch laddie, 

And sen' him safe hame to his babie and me ! 

May blessins light on thy sweet, we lippie ! 

May blessins light on thy bonnie ee-bree ! 
Thou smiles sae like my sodger laddie, 

Thou's dearer, dearer ay to me ! 
But I'll big a bow'r on yon bonnie banks, 

Whare fay rins wimplan by sae clear ; 
An' ill deed thee in the tartan fine. 

An' mak thee a man like thy daddie dear ! 

OLD VERSE. 

Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood, 
Ye're like to the bark o* yon rotten tree, 

Ye slip frae me like a knotless thread, 

Aq' ye'U crack your credit wi' mae than me, 



DONOCHT-HEAD. 
Tune^" Gordon Castle." 

Kken blaws the wind o'er Donocht-Head,* 

The snaw drives snelly thro' the dale. 
The Gaberlunzie tirls my sneck, 

And shivering tells his waefu' tale. 
" CauJd is the night, O let me in, 

•' And dinna let your minstrel fa', 
" And dinna let his windin-sheet 

" Be naething but a wreath o' snaw ! 

** Full ninety winters hae I seen, 

" And pip'd where gor-cocks whirring flew, 
•' And mony a day ye've danc'd, I ween, 

" To lilts which frae my drone I blew." 
My Eppie wak'd, and soon she ciy'd, 

" Get up, Guidman, and let him in ; 
" For weel ye ken the winter night 

" Was short when he began his din." 

My Eppie's voice, O wow it's sweet 
E'en tho' she bans and scaulds awee ; 

But when it's tun'd to sorrow's tale, i 
O haith, it's doubly dear to me ! 

• A mountaui in the North. 



Come in, au d Carl ! I'll steer my fire, 
I'll mak it bleeze a bonnie flame ; 

Your blude is thin, ye've tint the gate, 
Ye should na stray sae far frae hame. 

'• Nae hame have 1," the minstrel said, 
" Sad party strife o'erturn'd my ha' ; 

«• And, weeping at the eve o' life, 

" I wander thro' a wreath o' snaw.* 



THE BANKS OF THE TWEED. 

This song is one of the many attempts that 
English composers have made to imitate the 
Scottish manner, and which 1 shall, in these 
strictures, beg leave to distinguish by the appel- 
lation of Anglo- Scottish productions. The mu- 
sic is pretty good, but the verses are just above 
contempt Burns. 



I LEFT the sweet banks of the deep flowing 
Tweed, 

And my own little cot by the wild wood, 
When Fanny was sporting through valley and 
mead, 

In the beautiful morning of childhood 
And oftimes alone, by the wave-beaten shore, 

When the billows of twilight were flowing, 
I thought, as I mus'd on the days that were o'er. 

How the rose on her cheek would be blowing. 

I came to the banks of the deep flowing Tweed, 

And mine own little cot by the wild wood, _ 
Wlien o'er me ten summers had gathei'd theb 
speed. 

And Fanny had pass'd from her childhood. 
I found her as fair as my fancy could dream. 

Not a bud of her loveliness blighted. 
And I wish'd I had ne'er seen her beauty's soft 
beam, 

Or that we were for ever united. 



I I 



THE FLOWERS OF EDINBURGH. 

This Song is one of the many effusions of 
Scots jacobitism. — The title, Flowers of Edin- 
burgh, has no manner of connexion with the 
present verses, so I suspect there has been an 
older set of words, of which the title is all that 
remains. 



* "^fhis affecting poem was long attriTjuted to Burns. 

He thus remarks on it. " Donocht-Head is not mine 

I I would give ten pounds it were. It appeared first ir. 

' the Edinburgh Herald ; and eaine to the editor ol that 

' paper with the Newcastle post-mark on ic." It was 

the composition of William Pickering, a north o' 

■ England poet, who is not known to have written ans 

thma more. 



i 



By the ove, it is singular enough that the 


CHARLIE, JIE'S MY DARLINH 


Scottish Muses were all Jacobites 1 have paid 




more attention to every description of Scots 


OLD VERSES. 


songs than perhaps any body living has done, 


Tune—" Charlie is my darling." 


and I do not recollect one single stanza, or even 




the title of the most trifling Scots air, which 


*TwAS on a Monday morning, 


has the least panegyrical reference to the fami- 


Richt early in the year. 


lies of Nassau or Brunswick ; while there are 


That Charlie cam to our toun, 


hundreds satirizing them. This may be thought 


The young Chevalier. 


no panegyric on the Scots Poets, but I mean it 


And Charlie he's my darling^ 


as such. For myself, I would always take it as 


My darlitig, my darling ; 


a compliment to 'have it said, that my heart ran 


Charlie he s ~>iy darling, 


before my head ; and surely the gallant though 


The young Chevalier. 


unfortunate house of Stuart, the kings of our 




fathers for so many heroic ages, is a theme 


As he was walking up the street, 


much more interesting than * * * *. — 


The city for to view. 


j Burns. 


there he spied a bonnie lass. 




The window looking through. 


My love was once a bonny lad, 


And Charlie, Sfg. 


} He was the flower of all his kin. 




1 The absence of his bonny face 


Sae licht's he jumped up the stair. 


Has rent my tender heart in twain. 


And tirled at the pin ; 


day nor night find no delight, 


And wha sae ready as hersell, 


In silent tears I still complain ; 


To let the laddie in ! 


And exclaim 'gainst those my rival foes, 


And Charlie, §T. 


That ha'e ta'en from me my darUng swain. 




1 


He set his Jenny on his knee. 


I 1 Despair and anguish fills my breast. 


All in his Highland dress ; 


1 1 Since I have lost my blooming rose ; 


For brawly weel he kenned the way 


j I sigh and moan while others rest, 


To please a bonnie lass. 


1 His absence yields me no lepose. 


And Charlie, §-c. 


i To seek my love I'll range and rove. 




j j Thro' every grove and distant plain ; 


It's up yon heathy mountain, 


1 1 Thus I'll ne'er cease, but spend my days. 


And down yon scroggy glen, 


1 To hear tidings from my darling swain. 


We daurna gang a- milking, 


1 


For Charlie and his men. 


j There's naething strange in Nature's change, 


And Charlie, 8fc 


1 Since parents shew such cruelty ; 




They caus'd my love from me to range. 
And knows not to what destiny. 






The pretty kids and tender lambs 




May cease to sport upon the plain ; 


THE SOUTERS OF SELKIRK. 


1 But m mourn and lament in deep discontent 




For the absence of my darling swain. 


Up with the souters of Selkirk, 


! 


And down with the Earl of Home ! 


Kind Neptune, let me thee entreat, 


And up wi' a' the brave lads. 


To send a fair and pleasant gale ; 


Wha sew the single-soled shoon ! 


Ye dolphins sweet, upon me wait, 




And convey me on your tail ; 


! fye upon yellow and yellow. 


j Heavens bless my voyage with success, 


And fye upon yellow and green ; 


i While crossing of the raging main, 


And up wi' the true blue and scarlet, 


1 And send me safe o'er to that distant shoPS, 


And up wi' the single-soled shoon ! 


1 j To meet my lovely darling swain. 






Up wi' the souters of Selkirk — 


All joy and mirth at our return 


Up wi' the lingle and last ! 


Shall then abound from Tweed to Tay ; 


There's fame wi' the days that's coming. 


The bells shall ring and sweet birds sing. 


And glory wi' them that are past. 


1 To grace and crown our nuptial day. 




1 Thus bless'd wi' charms in my love's arms, 


Up wi' the souters of Selkirk — 


My heart once more I will regain ; 


Lads that are trusty and leal ; 


Then I'll range no more to a distant shore, 


And up with the men of the Forest, 


But in Jove will enjoy my darling swain. 


And down wi' the JNIerse to the deil ' 




! mitres are made for noddles. 
But feet they are made for shoon j 









SONGS. 



153 



And fame is as sib to Selkirk 
As light is true to the mooa. 

There si^s a souter in Selkirk, 

Wha sings as he draws his thread- 

There's gallant souters in Selkirk 
A" Jang there's water in Tweed. 



CRAIL TOUN.* 
•* Tune—" Sir John Malcolm." 

And was ye e'er in Crail toun ? 

Igo and ago ; 
And saw ye there Clerk Dishington ? f 

Sing iroin, igon, ago. 

His wig was like a doukit hen, 

Igo and ago ; 
The tail o't like a goose-pen, 

Sing ironi, igon, ago. 

And dinna ye ken Sir John Malcolm ? 

Igo and ago ; 
Gin he's a wise man I mistak hira, 

Sing irom, igon, ago. 

And hand ye weel frae Sandie Don, 

Igo and ago ; 
He's ten times dafter nor Sir John, 

Sing irom, igoo, ago. 

To hear them o' their travels talk, 

Igo and ago ; 
To gae to London's but a walk, 

Sing irom, igon, ago. 

To see the wonders o' the deep, 

Igo and ago. 
Wad gar a man baith wail and weep, 

Sing irom, igon, ago. 

To see the leviathan skip, 

Igo and ago, 
And wi' his tail ding ower a ship. 

Sing irom, igon, ago. 



« There is a somewhat different version of this 
strange song in Herd's Collection, 1776'. The present, 
which I think the best, is copied fiora the Scottish 
Minstrel. 

t The person known in Scottish song and tradition 
by the epithet Clerk Dishington, was a notary who ve. 
sijled about the middle of the last century in Crail, 
and acted as the town-clerk of that ancient burgh. I 
have been informed that he was a person of great local 
celebrity in his time, as an uncompromising humour- 



MY ONLY JO AND DEARIE, O 

GALL.* 

Tune—" My only jo and deane, O." 

Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue. 

My only jo and dearie, O j 
Thy neck is o' the siller dew, 

Upon the bank sae briery, O. 
Thy teeth are o' the ivory, 

sweet's the twinkle o' thine ee : 
Nae joy, nae pleasure blinks oa me, 

My only jo and dearie, O. 

When we were bairnies on yon brae, 
And youth vi^as blinkin' bonuie, O, 

Aft we wad diiff the lee lang day, 
Our joys fu' sweet and monie, O. 

Aft I wad chase thee ower the lee. 

And round about the thorny tree ; 

Or pu' the wild flow'rs a' for thee, 
My only jo and dearie, O. 

1 hae a wish I canna tine, 

'Mang a' the cares that grieve me, O ;; 
A wish that thou wert ever mine, 

And never mair to leave me, O ; 
Then I wad daut thee nicht and day, 
Nae ither warldly care I'd hae, 
Till life's warm stream forgat to play, 

My only jo and dearie, O. 



FAIRLY SHOT O' HER. 

Tune — " Fairly shot o' her." 

O gin I icere fairly shut o' her! 
Fairly, fairly, fairly shot o' her ! 
O gin I were fairly shut o her ! 
If she were dead, I xad dance on the top o' herl 

Till we were married, I couldna see licht till 

her ; 
For a month after, a' thing aye gaed richt wF 

her : 
But these ten years I hae prayed for a wrigiii 

to her — 
O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! 

O gin I were fairly shot o' her f Sfc. 

Nane o' her relations or friends could stay wi* 

her : 
The neebours and bairns are fain to flee frae her : 
And I my ainsell am forced to gie way till her : 
O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! 

O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! Sfc 

She gangs aye sae braw, she's sae muckle pride 

in her ; 
There's no a gudewife in the haill country-side 

like her . 



* Richard Gall, the son of a dealer in old furniture 
in St. Mary's Wynd, Edinburgh, was brought up te 
the business of a printer, and died at aa early age 
about the beginning ot the present eeutwry. 

N2 



154. 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Wi' dress and wi* drink, the deil wadna bide wi' 

her: 
O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! 

O gin I were fairly shot 6* her ! 8fc. 

If the time were but come that to the kirk-gate 

wi' her, 
And into the yird I'd mak mysell quit o' her, 
I'd then be as blythe as first when I met wi* 

her: 
O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! 

O gin I were fairly shot o' her ! 8fc. 



FALSE LUVE ! AND HAE YE PLAY'D 
ME THIS. 

False luve ! and hae ye play'd me this. 

In summer, 'mid the flowers ? 
I shall repay ye back again 

In winter, 'mid the showers. 

But again, dear luve, and again, dear luve, 

Will ye not turn again ? 
As ye look to other women 

Shall I to other men ?* 



FARE YE WEEL, MY AULD WIFE. 

And fare ye weel, my auld wife ; 

Sing bum, bee, berry, bum ; 
Fare ye w^eel, my auld wife ; 

Sing bum, bum, bum. 
Fare ye weel, my auld wife, 
The steerer up o* sturt and strife. 
The maut 's abune the meal the nicht, 

Wi' some, some, some. 

And fare ye weel, my pike-staff; 

Sins' bum, bee, berry, bum : 
Fare ye wee), my pike-staff; 

Sine bum, bum, bum. 
Fare ye weel, my pike-staff, 
W'"' vou uae mair n}y wife I'll baff; 
The maut's abune the meal the nicht, 

Wi' some, some, some. 



GET UP AND BAR THE DOOR. 

It fell about the IMartinmas time. 
And a gay time it was than, 



* From Herd's Collection, 1776.— A slightly diftfer- 
*nt version is put by Sir Walter Scott into the mouth 
of Davie Gellatley, in tlie celebrated novel of Waver- 

'♦ False love, and hast thou play'd me thia. 

In summer, among the flowers? 
I will repay thee back again 

In winter, among the showers. 

" Unless again, again, my love. 

Unless you turn again, 
Afl you with other maidens rove, 

I'll smik" on other men " 



When our gudewlfe had puddins to mak^ 
And she boil'd them in the pan. 
AtuI the harriri o' our door weil, wei^, weil^ 
And the barriri' o' our door weil. 

The wind blew cauld frae south to north, 

It blew into the floor ; 
Says our gudeman to our gudewife, 

Get up and bar the door. 
And the harrin\ §*c. 

My hand is in my hussyfe skep, 

Gudeman, as ye may see ; 
An it shouldna be barr'd this hunner yeOTy 

It's no be barr'd for me. 
And the barrin, Sfc. 

They made a paction 'tween them twa, 

They made it firm and sure. 
The first that spak the foremost word 

Should rise and bar the door. 
And the barrin', §*c. 

Then by there came twa gentlemen, 

At twelve o'clock at night ; 
And they could neither see house nor ha*. 

Nor coal nor caudle-licht. 
And the barrin', 8fC. 

Now whether is this a rich man's house, 

Or whether is this a puir ? 
But never a word wad ane o' them speak, 

For the barrin' o' the door. 
And the bariin, ifc. 

And first tiiey ate the white puddins, 

And syne they ate the black ; 
And muckle thocht our gudewife to herselly 

But never a word she spak. 
And the barrin', §"c. 

Then said the tane unto the tother, 

Hae, man, take ye my knife, 
Do ye tak aff the auld man's beard, 

And I'll kiss the gudewife. 
And the barrin', §*c. 

But there's nae water in the house. 

And what shall we do than ? 
What ails ye at the puddin' broo. 

That boils into the pan ? 
And the barrin', ofc. 

O, up then stattit ou\ a^udeman. 

And an angry man was he : 
Wad ye kiss my wife before my face. 

And scaud me wi' puddin' bree ? 
And the barrin*, 8fc. 

Then up and startit our gudewife, 

Gi'ed three sKips on the floor : 
Gudeman, ye've spoken the foremost word. 

Get up and bar the door.* 
And the barrin'. Sec. 



* From Herd's Collection, 1 776.— Tradition, as re- 
ported m Johnson's Musical Museum, affirms that the 



SONGS. 



I5i 



LOGTE O' BUCHAN. 



Twnf — " Logic o' BUchan." 



O, LjGiE o' Buchan, O, Logie, the laird, 
They hae ta'en awa Jamie that delved in the 

yard ; 
He play'd on the pipe and the viol sae sma' ; 
They hae ta'en awa Jamie, the flower o' them a*. 
He said. Think na lang, lassie, though I 

gang awa ; 
He said. Think na lang, lassie, though I 

gang awa ; 
For the simmer is coming, cauld winter^ 

aiva. 
And Til come back and see thee in spite o' 
them a'. 

O, Sandie has owsen, and siller, and kye, 
A house and a haddin, and a' things forbye, 
But I wad hae Jamie, wi's bonnet in's hand, 
Before I'd hae Sandy wi' houses and land. 
He said, Sfc. 

My daddie looks sulky, my minnie looks sour, 
They frown upon Jamie, because he is poor ; 
But daddie and minnie although that they be, 
There's narie o* them a' like my Jamie to me. 
He said, 8fc. 

1 sit on my creepie, and spin at my wheel. 
And think on the laddie that lo'ed me sae weel ; 
He had but ae sixpence — he brak it in twa. 
And he gi'ed me the hauf o't when he gaed awa. 
Then, haste ye back, Jamie, and hide na awa, 
Then haste ye back, Jamie, and bide na awa ; 
Simmer is comin , cauld winter'' s awa, 
And ye'll come and see me in spite o' them 



" gudeman" of this song was a person of the name of 
John Blunt, who Hved of yore in Crawford-Muir. 
There are two tunes to wliich it is often sung. One of 
them is in most of the Collections of Scottish Tunes ; 
the other, though to appearance equally ancient, seems 
to have been preserved by tradition alone, as we have 
never seen it in print. A third tune, to which we have 
heard this song sung, by only one person, an American 
student, we suspect to have been mported from his 
own country. 

* " Logie o' Buchan" is stated by Mr. Peter Buchan 
of Peterhead, in his Gleanings of Scarce Old Ballads 
(l8-!7)i to have been the composition of Mr. George 
Hali^et, and to have been written byhmti while school- 
irijster of Rathen, in Aberdeenshire, about the year 
1736. " The poetry of this individual," says Mi. 
Buchan, " was chiefly Jacobitieal, and long remained 
familiar amongst the peasantry in that quarter of the 
country : One of the best known of these, at the pre- 
sent, is ' Wherry, Whigs, awa, man!' In 1746, Mr. 
Hallcet wrote a dialogue betwixt George IL and the 
Devil, which falling into the hands of the Duke of 
Cumbeilaud v/hile on his march to Culloden, he of- 
fered one hundred pounds reward for the person or 
the head o.f its author. Mr. Halket died in 17.56. 

'* The Logie here mentioned, is in one of the ad- 
ioining parishes (Cramond) where Mr. Halket then 
resided; and the hero of the piece was a James Ro- 
bertson, gardener at the place of Logie." 



HERE'S A HEALTH 10 THEM THAT'S 
AWA. 

Tune — " Here's a health to them thaf s awa." 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

Here's a health to them that were here short 
syne, 
And canna be here the day. 

It s gude to be merry and wise ; 

It's gude to be honest and true ; 
It's gude to be aff wi' the auld love, 

Before ye be on wi' the new. 



HEY, CA' THROUGH. 

Tune—" Hey, ca' through." 

Up wi' the carles o' Dysart, 

And the lads o' Buckhaven, 
And the kimmers o' Largo, 
And the lasjes o' Leven. 

Hey, ca' through, ca' through, 

For we hae muckle ado : 
Hey, cd" through, ca through, 
For toe hae muckle ado. 

We hae tales to tell, 

And we hae sangs to sing j 
We hae pennies so spend. 

And we hae pints to bring. 

Hey, ca' through, 6fc. 

We'll live a' our days ; 

And them that comes behin', 
Let them do the like, 

And spend the gear they win. 

Hey, cd through, SfC, 



LO'ED NE'ER A LADDIE BUT ANE 

CLUNIE. 
Tune — " My lodging is on the cold ground." 

I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane ; 

He lo'ed ne'er a lassie but me. 
He's willing to mak me his ala ; 

And his ain I am willing to be. 
He has coft me a rokelay o' blue, 

And a pair o' mittens »' green; 
The price was a kiss o' my mou' ; 

And I paid him the debt yestreen. 

Let ithers brag weel o' their gear, 

Their land, and their lordly degree » 
I carena for ought but my dear. 

For he's ilka thing lordly to me : 
His words are sae sugar'd, sae sweet • 

His sense drives ilk fear far awa ! 
"f listen — poor fool ! and I greet ; 

Yet how sweet are the tears as thev h' \ 



15G 



BURNS' WORKS. 



AYE WAUKTNG, O. 



THE ORIGINAL SONG, FROM RECITATION. 

I'm wet, wet, 

I'm wet and weary ! 
Yet fain wad I rise and rin, 

If I thought I would meet my deary. 
Ay wauking, O ! 

Waukinff aye, and weary, 
Sleep I can get nane 

For thinking o' my dt^iry. 

Simmer's a pleasant time, 

Flowers of every M4'our, 
The water rins ower tne heugh— 

And I lang for my true lover 
Ay wauking, §*c. 

When I sleep I dream, 

When I wauk I'm eerie ; 
Sleep I can get nane 

For thinking o' my deary. 

Ay wauking, §*c. 

Lanely night comes on ; 
A' the lave are sleeping ; 

1 think on my love. 

And blear my een wi' greeting. 
Ay wauking, 8fc. 

Feather-beds are soft, 

Painted rooms are bonnie ; 
But a kiss o' my dear love 

Is better far than ony. 

Ay wauking, 8fc, 



KELVIN GROVE. 

JOHN LYLE. 

Tune — " Kelvin Grove." 

Let us haste to Kelvin grove, bonnie lassie, O ; 
Through its mazes let us rove, bonnie lassie, O ; 

Where the rose in all its pride 

Decks the hollow dingle's side. 
Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, O. 

We will wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, O, 
To the cove beside the rill, bonnie lassie, O ; 

Where the glens rebound the call 

Of the lofty waterfall. 
Through the mountain's rocky hall, bonnie 
lassie, O. 

Then we'll up to yonder glade, bonnie lassie, O, 
Where so oft, beneath its shade, bonnie lassie, O, 

With the songsters in the grove, 

We have told our tale of love, 
And have sportive garlands wove, bonaie lassie, O. 

Ah ! I soon must bid afiieu, bonnie lassie, O, 

To this fairy scene and you, bonnie lassie, O, 



To the streamlet winding clear, 
To the fragrant-scented brier, 
E'ea to thee of all most dear, bonnie lassie, O, 

For the frowns of fortune low'r, bonnie lassie, O 
On thy lover at this hour, bonnie lassie, O • 
Ere the golden orb of day, 
Wakes t^ie warblers from the spray, 
From this land I must away, bonnie lassie, O. 

And when on a distant shore, bonnie lassie, O, 
Should I fall 'midst battle's roar, bonnie lassie, 0, 

Wilt thou, Helen, when you hear 

Of thy lover on his bier. 
To his memory shed a tear, b nnie lassie? O.* 



BLUE BONNETS OVER THE BORDER 



T»ne- 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

Blue Bonnets over the Border. 



March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, 

Why, my lads, dinna ye march, forward it 
order ? 
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale ; 

All the blue bonnets are over the Border. 
Many a banner spread flutters above your head . 

Many a crest that is famous in story : 
Mount and make ready, then, sons of the mouiv. 
tain glen ; 
Fight for your Queen and the old Scottish 
glory. 

Come from the hills where your hirsels are grac- 
ing ; 

Come from the glen of the buck and the roe ; 
Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing ; 

Come with the b^ickler, the lance, and the bow 
Trumpets are sounding, war steeds are bounding ; 

Stand to your arras, and march in good order. 
England shall many a day tell of the bloody fray^ 

When the blue bonnets came over the Border 



COMIN' THROUGH THE RYE. 
Tune-^" Gin a Body meet a Bodv. 

Gin a body meet a body 

Comin' through the rye. 
Gin a body kiss a body. 

Need a body cry ? 
Ev'ry lassie has her lati;lie, 

Nane, they say, hae I ! 
Yet a' the lads they smile at me, 

When comin' through the rye. 
Amang the train there is a swain 

I dearly lo'e mysell ; 
But whaur his hame, or what his name, 
I dinna care to tell. 



* Kelvin Grove is a beautifully wooded dell, about 
tv;o miles fnim Glasgow, forming a sort o[ lovers' walk 
for tlie lads and lasses of that eitv. 



SONGS. 



Gin a body meet a body, 

Comin' frae the town, 

Gin a body greet a body. 

Need a body frown? 
Ev'ry lassie has her laddie, 

Nane, they say, hae I ! 
. Yet a' the lads they smile at me. 
When comin' through the rye. 
Amang the train there is a swain 

I dearly lo'e mysell ; 
But whaur his hame, or what his name, 
I dinna care to tell. 



DINNA THINK, BONNIE LASSIE. 

Tune — " The Smith's a gallant fireman." 

DiNNA think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to 

leave thee ; 
Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave 

thee ; 
Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave 

thee ; 
I'll tak a stick into my hand, and come again 

and see thee. 
Far's the gate ye hae to gang ; dark's the 

night and eerie ; 
Far's the gate ye hae to gang ; dark's the 

night and eerie ; 
Far's the gate ye hae to gang; dark's the 

night and eerie ; 
O stay this night wi' your love, and dinna 

gang and leave me. 
It'fi but a night and hauf a day that I'll leave 

my dearie ; 
But a night and hauf a day that I'll leave my 

dearie ; 
But a night and hauf a day that I'll leave my 

dearie ; 
Whene'er the sun gaes west the loch I'll 

come again and see thee. 
Dinna gang, my bonnie lad, dinna gang and 

leave me ; 
Dinna gang, my bonnie lad, dinna gang and 

leave me ; 
When a' the lave are sound asleep, I'm dull 

and eerie ; 
And a' the lee-lang night I 'm sad, wi' think- 
ing on ray dearie. 
O dinna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to 

leave thee ; 
Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave 

thee ; 
Dmna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave 

thee ; 
When e'er the sun gaes out o' sight, I'll come 

again and see thee. 
Waves are rising o'er the sea ; winds blaw 

loud and fear me ; 
VY'ives are rising o'er the sea ; winds blaw 
loud and fear me. 



While the Avinds and waves do roar, I ani 

wae and dreary ; 
And gin ye lo'e me as ye say, ye winna gang 

and leave me. 

O never mair, bonnie lassie; will I gang and 

leave thee ; 
Never mair, bonnie lassie ,will I gang and 

leave thee ; 
Never mair, bonnie lassie, will I gang and 

leave thee; 
E'en let the world gang as it will, I'll stay 

at hame and cheer thee. 

Frae his hand he coost his stick ; I winna 

gang and leave thee ; 
Threw his plaid into the neuk ; never can I 

grieve thee ; 
Drew his boots, and flang them by ; cried my 

lass, be cheerie ; 
I'll kiss the tear frae aff thy check, and 

never leave my dearie. 



BONNIE MARY HAY. 

CRAWFORD 

Bonnie Mary Hay, I will loe thee yet ; 
For thine eye is theslae, and thy hair is the jet , 
The snaw is thy skin, and the rose is thy 

cheek ; 
O, bonnie Mary Hay, I will loe thee yet ! 

O, bonnie Mary Hay, will ye gang wi' me, 
When the sun's in the west, to the hawthorn 

tree, 
To the hawthorn tree, and the bonnie beiTy 

den? 
And I'll tell thee, Mary Hay, how I loe thoe 

then. 

O, bonnie Mary Hay, it is haliday to me. 
When thou art couthie,kind, and free ; 
There's nae clouds in the lift, nor storms in 

the sky, . 
Bonnie Mary Hay, when thou art nigh. 

O, bonnie Mary Hay, thou mauna say me nay. 
But come to the bower, by the hawthorn brae ; 
But come to the bower, and I'll tell ye a' what's 

true. 
How, K>nnie Mary Hay, I can loe nane but 

jou. 



CARLE, AN THE KING COME. 

Tune — " Carle, an the King come." 

Carle, an the king" come. 
Carle, an the king come. 
Thou shalt dance and I will sing, 
Carle, an l\ e ki'^ff come 



158 



BURNS' WORKS 



An somebody were come again, 
Tlien somebody maun cross the main ; 
And every man shall hae his ain, 
Carle, an the king come. 

I trow we swappit for the worse ; 
We ga'e the boot and better horse ; 
And that we'll tell them at the corse, 
Carle, an the king come. 

When yellow corn grows on the rigs, 
And gibbets stand to hang the Whigs, 
O, then we'll a' dance Scottish jigs, 
Carle, an the king come. 

Nae mair wi' pinch and drouth we'll dine, 
As we hae done — a dog's propine — 
But quaff our draughts o' rosy wine. 
Carle, an the king come. 

Cogie, an the king come, 
Cogie, an the king come, 
I'se be fou and thou'se be toom 
Cogie, an the king come.* 



COME UNDER MY PLAIDIE. 

MACNIEL. 

Tune—" Johnny M'Gill." 

Come under my plaidie ; the night's gaun to fa' ; 
Come in frae the cauld blast, the drift, and the 

snaw : 
Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me ; 
There's room in't, dear lassie, believe me, for 

twa. 
Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me ; 
I'll hap ye frae every cauld blast that can blavv: 
Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me ; 
There's room in't, dear lassie, believe me, for 

twa. 

Gae 'wa wi' yere plaidie ! auld Donald, gae 'wa. ; 
' fear na the cauld blast, the drift, nor the snaw ! 
Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie ! I'll no sit beside ye ; 
Ye micht be my gutcher ! auld Donald, gae 'wa. 
['m gaun to meet Johnnie — he's young and he's 

bonnie ; 
He's been at Meg's bridal, fou trig and fou braw ! 
Nane dancss sae lichtly, sae gracefu', or tichtly, 
His cheek's like the new rose, his brow's like 

the snaw I 

Dear ]\Iarion, let that flee stick to the wa' ; 
Your Jock's but a gowk, and has naething ava ; 
The haill o' his pack he has now on his back ; 
He's thretty, and I am but three score and twa. 



* This is an old favourite cavalier song ; the chorus, 
at least, is as old as the time of the Commonwealth, 
when the return of King Charles II. was a matter of 
laily prayer to the Loyalists. 



Be frank now and kindly — I'll busk ye aye 

finely ; 
To kirk or to market there'll few gang sae braw , 
A bien house to bide in, a chaise for to ride in, 
And flunkies to 'tend ye as aft as ye ca'. 

My father aye tauld me, my mother and a*, 
Ye'd niak a gude husband, and keep me aye 

braw ; 
It's true, I lo'e Johnnie ; he's young and he's 

bonnie ; 
But, wae's me ! I ken he has naething ava ! 
I hae little tocher ; ye've made a gude offer ; 
I'm now mair than twenty ; my time is but 

sma' ! 
Sae gie my your plaidie ; I'll cit-ep in beside ye ; 
I thocht ye'd been aulder than three score and 

twa ! 

She crap in ayont him, beside the stane wa', 
Whare Johnnie was listnin', and heard her tell a'. 
The day was appointed ! — his proud heart it 

dunted, 
And strack 'gainst his side, as if burstia' in 

twa. 
He wander'd hame wearie, the nicht it was 

drearie, 
And, thowless, he tint his gate 'mang the deep 

snaw : 
The howlet was screamin', while Johnnie cried, 

Women 
Wad marry auld Nick, if he'd keep them aye 

braw. 

O, the deil's in the lasses ! they gang now sae 

braw. 
They'll lie down wi' auld men o' fourscore and 

twa ; 
The hail o' their marriage is gofi^d and a car- 
riage ; 
Plain love is the caiildest blast now that can 

blaw. 
Auld dotards, be wary ! tak tent when ye 

marry ; 
Young wives, wi' their coaches, they'll whip 

and they'll ca', 
Till they meet wi' some Johnnie that's youth- 

fu' and bonnie. 
And they'll gie ye horns on ilk haffet to claw. 



DUSTY MILLER. 
Tune—" The dusty Miller." 

Hey, the dusty miller. 

And his dusty coat ! 
He will win a shilling. 

Ere he spend a groat. 
Dusty was the coat. 

Dusty was the colour; 
Dusty was the kiss, 

I'hat I gat frae the miller 



SONGS. 159 


Hey, the dusty miller, 


KEEP THE COUNTRY, BONNIE 


And his dusty sack I 


LASSIE. 


Leeze me on the calling 
Fills the dusty peck ; 




Tune—" Keep the Country, bonnie T,assrc." 


Fills the dusty peck, 


Keep the country, bonnie lassie, 


Brings the dusty sillef : 
I wad gie my coatie 


Keep the country, keep the country ; 


Keep the country, bonnie lassie ; 


For the dusty miller. 


Lads will a' gie gowd for ye : 
Gowd for ye, bonnie lassie, 






Gowd for ye, gowd for ye : 


THE WEARY FUND 0' TOW. 


Keep the country, bonnie lassie ; 


FROM RECITATION. 


Lads will a' gie gowd for ye. 


Tune—" The weary pund o' tow." 






1 BOUGHT my wife a stane o* lint 
As good as ere did grow, 


HAP AND ROW THE FEETIE 0*T. 


And a' that she could make o' that 


WILLIAM CREECH.* 


Was ae weary pund o' tow. 




The weary pund, the weary pund, 


Tune—" Hap and Rowe the Feetie ot" 


The weary pund o' tow, 
I thought my wife would end her life 
Before she span her tow. 


TFe'ZZ hap and row, well hap and row, 

Well hap and row the feetie o't. 
It is a wee bit weary thing F 




I lookit to my yarn-nag, 


I downa hide the greetie o't. 


And it grew never mair ; 




I lookit to my beef-stand — . 


And we pat on the wee bit pan, 


My heart grew wonder sair ; 


To boil the lick o' meatie o't ; 


I lookit to my meal-boat. 


A cinder fell and spoil'd the plan. 


And 0, but it was howe ! 


And burnt a' the feetie o't. 


I think my wife will end her life 


We'll hap and row, Sec. 


Afore she spin her tow. 






Fu' sair it grat, the puir wee brat, 


But if your wife and my wife 


And aye it kicked the feetie o't. 


Were in a boat thegither, 


Till, puir \V!^e elf, it tired itself; 


And yon other man's wife 


And then began the sleepie o't. 


Were in to steer the ruther ; 


We'll hap and roiv, Sj-c. 


And if the boat were bottomless, 




And seven mile to row, 


The skirling brat nae parritch gat, 


I think they'd ne'er come harae again, 


When it gaed to the sleepie o't ; 


To spin the pund o' tow I 


It's waesome true, instead o' t's raou*, 




They're round about the feetie o't. 




We'll hap and row, 8fc. 


THE LANDART LAIRD. 




There lives a landart * laird in Fife, 


JUMPIN' JOHN 


And he has married a dandily wife : 




She wadna shape, nor yet wad she sew. 


Tune—" Jumpin' John 


But sit wi' her cummers, and fill hersell fu'. 






Her daddie forbade, her minnie forbade ; 


She wadna spin, nor yet wad she card ; 


Forbidden she wadna be. 


But she wad sit and crack wi' the laird. 


She wadna trow't, the browst she brewed. 


Sae he is doun to the sheep-fauld, 


Wad taste sae bitterlie. 


And cleekit a wetherf by the spauld.:}: 


The long lad they ca' Jumpin John 




Beguiled the bonnie lassie ; 


He's whirled aff the gude wether's skin. 


The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John 


And wrapped the dandily lady therein. 


Beguiled the bonnie lassie. 


" I downa pay you, for your gentle kin ; 






But weel may I skelp my wether's skin.§ 


* A gentleman long at the head of the booksellinj; 




trade in Edinburgh, and who had been Lord Provont 




of the city. A volunne of his miscellanrous prose es- 


« Landward— that is, living in a part of the country 


says has been published, under tlie title of " Edinburgh 


Bt some distance from any town, i 


Fugitive Pieces." He was not only remarkable to? 


4 Wedder. J Shoulder. ; 


his literary accomplishments, but also for his conver 


% This curious and most amusing old ditty is from 


sational powers, which were such as to open to hin^ 


sir, Jamieson's " Popular Ballads and Songs," 1806. | 


the society of the highest literary men of his day. 



.60 BURNS' WORKS. 


\ cow ana a cauf, a yowe and a hauf, 


Donald Couper and his ioa» 


And thretty gude shillings and three ; 


Held to a Highland fair, man • 


A veiy gude tocher, a cottarman's dochter, 


And a' to seek a bonnie lass — 


The lass wi the bonnie black ee. 


But fient a ane was there, man. 


The lang lad, §-c. 






At length he got a carline gray, 




And she's come hirplin hame, man ; 
And she's fawn owre the buffet stool, 






And brak her rumple-bane, man. 


DEAR ! MINNIE, WHAT SHALL I DO ? 




Thme—" dear ! mother, what shall I do V* 




" Oh dear ! minnie, what shall I do ? 


LITTLE WAT YE WHA'S COMIWa 


Oh dear ! minnie, what shall I do ? 




Oh dear ! minnie, what shall I do ?" 


Tune—" Little wat ye wha's coming.* 


" Daft thing, doiled thing, do as I do." 






LiTTT.E wat ye wha's coming, 


'« If I be black, I canna be lo'ed ; 


Lirrlr vat ye wha's coming, 


If I be fair, I canna be gude ; 


LittI \v,it ye wha's coming ; 


If I be lordly, the lads will look by me ; 


Jock ,i)d Tam and a' 's coming! 


Oh dear ! minnie, what shall I do ?" 






Dunc)''-: coming, Donald's coming, 


« Oh dear ! minnie, what shall I do ? 


Colin' otning, Ronald's coming, 


Oh dear ! minnie, what shall I do ? 


Don.'.: ^ coming, Lauchlan's coming, 


Oh dear ! minnie, what shall I do ?" 


Alistf r and a' 's coming ! 


' Daft thing, doiled thing, do as I do." 


Little wat ye wha's coming, 




Little wat ye wha's coming. 
Little wat ye wha's coming ; 






Jock and Tarn and a' 's coming ! 


KILLIECRANKIE, 0. 






Borland and his men's coming. 


Tune—" The braes o' Killiecrankie." 


The Camerons and Maclean's coming. 




The Gordons and Macgregor's coming. 


Where hae ye been sae braw, lad ? 


A' the Duniewastles coming ! 


Where hae ye been sae braukie, ? 




j Where hae ye been sae braw, lad ? 


Little wat ye wha's coming. 


Cam ye by Killiecrankie, ? 


Little wat ye wha's coming, 


An ye had been where I hae been, 


Little wat ye wha's coming ; 
MacGilvray o' Drumglass is coming ! 


Ye icadna been sae cantie, O ; 


An ye had seen what I hae seen 




On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O. 


Winton's coming, Nithsdale's coming, 




Carnwath's coming, Kenmure's coming, 


I've faught at land, I've faught at sea ; 


Derwentwater and Foster's coming. 


At hame I faught my auntie, O ; 


Withrington and Nairn's coming ! 


But I met the deevil and Dundee, 




On the braes o' Killiecrankie, ! 


Little wat ye wha's coming, 


An ye had been, §-c. 


Little wat ye wha's coming, 


1 

The bauW Pitcur fell in a fur. 


Little wat ye wha's coming ; 
Blythe Cowhill and a' 's coming ! 


i And Claverse gat a dankie, ; 


Or I had fed an Athole gled. 


The Laird o' Macintosh is coming, 
Macrabie and Macdouald's coming, 


1 On the braes o' Killiecrankie, 0. 


1 An ye had been, 8fc. 


The Mackenzie* and Macphersons comings 




A' the wild MacCraws coming ! 
Little wat ye wha's coming, 




! DONALD COUPER. 


Little wat ye wha's coming. 




Little wat ye wha's coming ; 


Tune—" Dona? J Couper and his maa." 


Donald Gun and a' 's coming ' 


Het Donald, howe Donald, 


They g^oom, they glowr, they look sae big. 


Hey Donald Couper ! 


At ilka stroke they'll fell a Whig ; 


fle's gane awa to seek a wife, 


They'll fright the fuds of the Pockpuds; 


And he's come hame without her. 

i 


For mony a buttock hare's coming. 

1 



16J 



Little wat ye wha s coming, 
Little wat ye wha s coming, 
Little wat ye wha's coming ; 
Mony a buttock bare's coming ! 



OCH HEY, JOHNNIE LAD. 

TANNAHILL. 

OcH hey, Jolinnle lad, 

Ye' re no sae kind's ye sou'd hae been : 
Och hey, Johnnie lad, 

Ye didna keep your tryst yestreen. 
I waited lano^ beside the wood, 

Sae wae and weary a' my lane : 
Och hey, Johnnie lad, 

It was a waefu' nicht yestreen ! 

I lookit by the whinny knowe, 

I lookit by the firs sae green ; 
I lookit ower the spunkie howe. 

And aye I thocht ye wad hae been. 
The ne'er a supper cross'd my craig, 

The ne'er a sleep has closed my een 
Och hey, Johnnie lad, 

Ye're no sae kind's ye sou'd hae been 

Gin ye were waitin' by the wood. 

It's I was waitin' by the thorn ; 
I thocht it was the place we set, 

And waited maist till dawnin' morn. 
But be nae beat, my bonnie lass, 

Let my waitin' stand for thine ; 
We'll awa to Craigton shaw, 

And seek the joys we tint yestreen. 



OUR GUDEMAN CA]\r HAME AT E'EN. 

Our gudeman cam hame at e'en. 

And hame cam he ; 
And there he saw a saddle-horse. 

Where nae horse should be. 
Oh, how cam this horse here? 

How can this be ? 
How cam this horse here ? 

Without the leave o' me? 
A horse ! quo' she ; 
Aye, a horse, quo' he. 
Ye auld blind dotard carle, 

And blinder mat ye be ! 
It's but a bonnie milk-cow, 

My mither sent to me. 
A milk-cow ! quo' he ; 
Aye, a milk -cow, quo' she. 
Far hae I ridden, 

And muckle hae I seen ; 
But a saddle on a milk-cow 

Saw I never nane. 



Our gudeman cam hame at e en, 

And hame cam he ; 
He spied a pair o' jack-boots, 
Where nae boots should be. 
What's this now, gudewife ? 

What's this I see ? 
How cam thae boots here, 
Without the leave o' me ? 
Boots ! quo' she ; 
Aye, boots, quo' he. 
Ye auhi blind dotard carle. 

And blinder mat ye be ! 
It's but a pair o' water-stoups. 
The coo})er sent to me. 
Water-stoups ! quo' he ; 
Aye, water-stoups, quo' she. 
Far hae I ridden. 

And muckle hae I seen ; 
But siller-spurs on water-stoups 
Saw I never nane. 

Our gudeman cam hame at e'een, 

And hame cam he ; 
And there he saw a siller sword, 

Where nae sword should be. 
What's this now, gudewife ? 

What's this I see ? 
O how cam this sword here, 

Without the leave o* me ? 
A sword . que sne 
Aye, a sword, quo' he 
Ye auld blind dotard carle. 

And blinder mat ye be ! 
It's but a parridge-spurtle. 

My minnie sent to me. 

A parridge-spurtle I quo' he ; 
Aye, a parridge-spurtle, quo' sL«. 
Weel, far hae I ridden, 

And muckle hae I seen ; 
But siller-hauded parridge-spurtlea 

Saw I never nane. 

Our gudeman cam hame at e'en, 

And hame cam he ; 
And there he spied a powder d wig, 

Where nae wig should be. 
What's this now, gudewife ? 

What's this I see .■' 
How cam this wig here. 

Without the leave o' me ? 
A wig ! quo' she ; 
Aye, a wig, quo' be. 
Ye auld blind dotard carle, 

And blinder mat ye be ! 
'Tis naething but a clocken-hen 

My minnie sent to me. 
A clocken-hen ! quo' he ; 
Aye, a clocken-hen, quo' she- 
Far hae I ridden. 

And nmckle hae I seen, 
But pouther on a clocken-hen 

Saw I never nane. 

Our gudeman cam hame at e'en, 
And hame cam he : 



162 



BURNS' WORKS. 



And there he saw a raickle coat, 

Where nae coat should be. 
How cam this coat here ? 

How can this be ? 
How cam this coat here, 
Without the leave o' me ? 
A oat ! quo' she ; 
Aye, a coat, quo' he. 
Ye auld blind dotard carle, 
And blinder mat ye be ! 
It's but a pair o' blankets 
My minnie sent to me. 
Blankets ! quo' he ; 
Aye. blankets, quo' she 
Far hae I ridden. 

And muckle hae I seen ; 
But buttons upon blankets 
Saw I never nane ! 

Ben gaed our gudeman, 

And ben gaed he ; 
And there he spied a sturdy man. 

Where nae man should be. 
How cam this man here? 

How can this be ? 
How cam this man here, 

Without the leave o' me? 
A man ! quo' she ; 
Aye, a man, quo' he. 
Puir blind body, 

And blinder mat you be ! 
It's but a new milkin* maid, 

My mither sent to me. 
A maid ! quo' he ; 
Aye, a maid, quo' she. 
Far hae I ridden, 

And muckle hae I seen. 
But lang-bearded maidens 

Saw I never nane. 



GO TO BERWICK, JOHNIE. 
Tune—" Go to Berwick Johnie." 

Go to Berwick, Johnie ; 

Bring her frae the Border ; 
Yon sweet bonnie lassie, 

Let her gae nae farther. 
English loons will twine ye 

O' the lovely treasure ; 
But we'll let them ken, 

A sword wi* them we'll measure. 

Go to Berwick, .Johnie, 

And regain your honour ; 
Drive them ower the Tweed, 

And show our Scottish banner. 
I am Rob the king. 

And ye are Jock, my brither ; 
But, before we lose her. 

We'll a' there thegitlier.* 



IF YE'LL BE MY DAWTIE, \ND SIT 
IN MY PLAID. 

Tune—" Hie, Bonnie Lassie.'* 

Hie, bonnie lassie, blink over the burn. 
And if your sheep wander I'll gie them a turn 
Sae happy as we'll be on yonder green shade. 
If ye'll be my dawtie, and sit in my plaid. 

A yowe and twa lammies are a' my haill stock 
But I'll sell a lammie out o' my wee flock, 
To buy thee a head-piece, sae bonnie and braid 
If ye'll be niy dawtie, and sit in my plaid. 

I hae little siller, but ae hauf-year's fee, 
But if ye will tak' it, I'll gie't a' to thee ; 
And then we'll be married, and lie in ae bed;, 
If ye'll be my dawtie, and sit in my plaid. 



I'LL NEVER LEAVE THEE 



JOHNNT. 

seven years and mair. 



honour 
rair, thou needsna 



Though, for 

should reave me 

To fields where cannons 
grieve thee ; 

For deep in my spirit thy sweets are indented ; 

And love shall preserve ay what love has im- 
printed. 

Leave thee, leave thee, I'll never leave thee, 

Gang the warld as it will, dearest, believe me ' 

NELLY. 

Oh, Johnny, I'm jealous, whene'er ye discover 
My sentiments yielding, ye'll turn a loose rover ; 
And nought in the world would vex my heart 

sairer. 
If you prove inconstant, and fancy ane fairer. 
Grieve me, grieve me, oh, it wad grieve me, 
A' the lang night and day, if you deceive me ! 

JOHNNY. 

My Nelly, let never sic fancies oppress ye ; 
For, while my blood's warm, I'll kindly caress 

Your saft blooming beauties first kindled love'g 

fire, 
Your virtue and wit mak it ay flame the higher 
Leave thee, leave thee, I'll never leave thee, 
Gang the world as it will, dearest, believe me ! 



» This popular rant is from Johnson's Musical Mu- 
•eum, vol. VI., 1805. Ritson, in his Scottish Songs, 



1793, mentions, that he had heard it gravely asserted 
at Edinburgh, that " a foolisli song, beginning. 

Go, go, go, go to Berwick, Johnie! 

Thou shall have the horse, and I shall have the poney 

was made upon one of Wallace's marauding expedi- 
tions, and that the jierson thus addressed was no othei 
than h'isjidus Achates, Sir John Graham." 



SONGS. 



163 



NKLLY. 

Then, Jolmny ! I frankly tliia minute allow ye 
To think me your mistress, for love gars me 

trow ye ; 
And gin ye prove false, to yoursell be it said, 

' then, 
Ye win but sma' honour to wrang a puir maiden. 
Reave me, reave me, oh, it would reave me 
Of my rest, night and day, if you deceive me ! 



JOHNNY. 

Bid ice-shogles hammer red gauds on the studdy, 
And fair summer mornings nae mair appear 

ruddy ; 
Bid Britons think ae gate, and when they obey 

thee. 
But never till that time, believe I'll betray thee. 
Leave thee, leave thee ! I'll never leave thee ! 
The starns shall gae withershins ere I deceive 

thee! 



KATHERINE OGIE. 

As walking forth to view the plain, 

Upon a morniug early. 
While JNIay's sweet scent did cheer my brain, 

From flowers which grow so rarely, 
I chanced to meet a pretty maid ; 

She shined, though it was foggy ; 
I ask'd her name : sweet Sir, she said, 

My name is Katherine Ogie. 

I stood a while, and did admire. 

To see a nymph so stately ; 
So brisk an air there did appear, 

In a country maid so neatly : 
Such natural sweetness she display'd, 

Like a lilie in a bogie ; 
Diana's self was ne'er array'd 

Like this same Katherine Ogie. 

Thou flower of females, beauty's queen, 

Who sees thee, sure must prize thee ; 
Though thou art drest in robes but mean, 

Yet these cannot disguise thee : 
Thy handsome air, and graceful look, 

Far excels any clownish rogie ; 
Thou art a match for lord or duke, 

My charming Katherine Ogie. 

O were I but some shepherd swain ! 

To feed my flock beside thee, 
At boughtlng-time to leave the plain, 

In milking to abide thee ; 
I'd think myself a happier man. 

With Kate, my club, and dogie, 
Than he that hugs his thousands ten. 

Had I but Katherine Ogie. 



OWER BOGIE. 

ALLAN RAMSAY. 

Tune — '* O'er Bogie." 

I WILL awa' wi' my love, 

I will awa' wi' her, 
Though a' uiy kin had sworn and saidt 

I'll ower Bogie wi' her. 
If I can get but her consent, 

I dinna care a strae ; 
Though ilka ane be discontent, 

Awa' wi her I'll gae. 

For now she's mistress o' my heart, 

And wordy o' my hand ; 
And weel, I wat, we shanna part 

For siller or for land. 
Let rakes delight to swear and drink. 

And beaux admire fine lace ; 
But my chief pleasure is to blink 

On Betty's bonnie face. 

I will awa' wi' my love, 

I will awa' wi' her, 
Though a' my kin had sworn and saidf 

I'll o'er Bogie wi' her. 



LASS, GIN YE LO'E ME. 

JAMES TYTLER. 

Tune—*' Lass, gin ye lo'e me." 

I HAE laid a herring in saut — 

Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now ; 
I hae brew'd a forpit o' maut. 

An' I canna come ilka day to woo : 
I hae a calf that will soon be a cow — 

Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now ; 
I hae a stook, and I'll soon hae a mowe. 

And I canna come ilka day to woo : 

I hae a house upon yon moor — 

Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now ; 
Three sparrows may dance upon the floor, 

And I canna come ilka day to woo : 
I hae a but, an' I hae a ben — 

Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now ; 
A penny to keep, and a penny to spen'. 

An' I canna come ilka day to woo : 

I hae a hen wi' a happitie-!eg — 

Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now; 
That ilka day lays me an egg. 

An' I canna come ilka day to woo : 
I hae a cheese upon my skelf — 

Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now ; 
And soon wi' mites 'twill rin itself. 

And I canna come ilka day to woo. 



164 



BURNS' WORKS. 



LASSIE, LIE NEAR ME. 

DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Tune-^" Laddie, He near me." 

Lang hae we parted been. 

Lassie, my deerie ; 
Now we are met again, 

Lassie, lit '\eur me. 

Near me, near me, 
Lassie, lie near me. 

Lang hast thou lain thy lane 
Lassie, lie near me. 

A' that I hae endured, 

Lassie, my dearie, 
Here in thy arms is cured ; 

Lassie, lie near me. 



LOW DOUN r THE BRUME.* 

Tune — " Low doun i* the Broom." 

My daddie is a cankert carle. 

He'll no twine wi' his gear ; 
My minnie she's a scauldin' wife, 
Hauds a' the house a«teer. 

JBzd let them say, or let them do, 

It's a une to me. 
For he's low doun, he's in the brume. 

That's wait in' on me: 
Waiting on me, my luve. 

He's waiting on me : 
For he's low doun, he's in the brume, 
That^s waitin on me. 

My auntie Kate sits at her wheel, 

And sair she lightlies me ; 
But weel I ken it's a' envy. 

For ne'er a joe has she. 

And let them say, ^c. 

My cousin Kate was sair beguiled 

Wi' Johnnie o' the Glen ; 
And aye sinsyne she cries. Beware 

O' fause deluding men. 

And let them say, §-c. 

Gleed Sandy he cam wast yestreen, 
And speir'd when I saw Pate ; 

And aye sinsyne the neebors round 
They jeer me air and late. 
A.nd let them say, &cc. 



* The chorus of this song is very old : tradition 
ascribes the verses to a Laird of Balnamoon in Forfar- 
shire: but upon that point the learned (iiffer. It is 
one of thi most popular ditties in ScotlanJ. 



THE CAMPBELLS ARE CvOMING. 
U*.-v-.'"** The Campbells are coming." 

The Campbells are coming, 0~hn, 0-ho I 
The Campbells are coining, O-ho ! 

The Campbells are coming to bonnic Locii 
leven ! 
The Campbells ar a coming, 0-ho, 0-ho 

Upon the Lomonds I lay, I lay ; 

Upon the Lomonds 1 lav ; 
I lookit doun to bonnie Lochleven, 

And saw three perches play. 

The Campbells are coming, §*c. 

Great Argyle he goes before ; 

He makes the cannons and guns to roar ; 
With sound o' trumpet, pipe, and drum ; 

The Campbells are coming, 0-ho, 0-ho ! 
The Campbells are coming, S^c. 

The Campbells they are a' in arms, 
Their loyal faith and truth to show, 

With banners rattling in the wind ; 

The Campbells are coming, 0-ho, 0-ho ! • 
The Campbells are coming, Sfc. 



MERRY HAE I BEEN TEETHING A 
HECKLE. 

Tune — " Lord Breadalbane's March." 

O MERRY hae I been teething a heckle, 

And merry hae I been shapin a spune ; 
O merry hae I been cloutin a kettle. 

And kissin my Katie when a' was dune. 
O a' the lang day I ca' at my hammer. 

And a' the lang day I whistle and sing ; 
A' the lang nicht I cuddle my kimmer. 

And a' the lang nicht as happy 's a king. 

Bitter in dule I lickit my winnins, 

O' marrying Bess, to gie her a slave : 
Bleat be the hour she cooled in her linens, 

And blythe'be the bird that sings over her 
grave ! 
Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie, 

And come to my arms, my Katie again ! 
Drucken or sober, here's to thee, Katie ! 

And blest be the day I did it again ! 



* From Johnson's Musical Museun^ Part III., 1790, 
where it is insinuated, as an on dit, that it was com- 
posed on the imprisonment of Queen Mary in Loch- 
leven Castle. The Lomonds are two well-known 
hills, overhanging Lochleven to the east, and visible 
from Edinburgh. The air is the well-known family 
tune or march of the Clan Campbell. 



SONGS. 



165 



MY AULD MAN. 
Tune — " Saw ye my Father ?" 

Its the land of Fife there lived a wicked wife, 

And in the town of Cupar then, 
Who sorely did lament, and made her complaint, 

Oh when will ye die, my auld man ? 

In cam her cousin Kate, when it was growing 
late, 
Slie said, What's gude for an auld man ? 
O wheit-breid and wine, and a kinnen new 
slain ; 
That's gude for an auld man. 

Cam ye in to jeer, or cam ye in to scorn^ 

Aad A'hat for cam ye in ? 
For bear-bread and water, Fm sure, is much 
better — 

It's ower gude for an auld man. 

Now the auld man's deid, and, without I'emeid, 

Into his cauld grave he's gane : 
Lie still wi' my blessing ! of thee I hae nae 

missing ; 
I'll ne'er mourn for an auld man. 

Within a little mair than three quarters of a year, 
She was married to a young man then, 

Whfi drank at the wine, and tippled at the beer. 
And spent more gear than he wan. 

O black grew her brows, and howe grew her 
een. 

And cauld grew her pat and her pan : 
And now she sighs, and aye she says, 

T wish I had ray silly auld man ! * -' 



FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY 

OLD VERSES. 

Tune—" Somebody.* 

For the sake of somehndy, 
For the sake of somebody, 

I could wake a winter nicht, 
For the sake of somebody. 

I AM gaun to seek a wife, 
I am gaun to buy a plaidy ; 

I have three stane o' woo' ; 

Carline, is thy daughter ready ? 
For the sake of somebody, §*c. 



* From Ritson's " Scottish Songs," 1793, into 
which the editor mentions that it was copied from 
»ome common collection, whose title he did not re. 
member. It has often been the task of the Scottish 
muse to point out the evils of ill-assorted alliances; 
but she has scarcely ever done so with so much hu- 
mour, and, at the same time, so much force of moral 
painting, as in the present case. No tune is assigned 
to the song in Ritson's Collection ; but the present 
editor has ventured to suggest the fine air, " Saw ye 
my father," ratlier as being suitable to the peculiar 
rlivthm of the verses 'han to the spirit of the compo- 
sition. 



Betty, lassy, say't thysell, 

Though thy dame be ill to shoe ; 
First we'll buckle, then we'll tell ; 

Let her flyte, and syne come to. 
What signifies a mother's gloom. 

When love and kisses come in play? 
Should we wither in our bloom, 

And in simmer mak nae hay ? 
For the sake of somebody, Sfc. 

Bonny lad, I careoa by, 

Though I try my luck wi' thee, 
Since ye are content to tie 

The half-mark bridal-band wi' me. 
I'll slip hame and wash my feet, 

And steal on linens fair and clean ; 
Syne at the trysting-place vve'U meet, 
To do but what my dame has done. 
For the sake of somebody. 

For the sake of somebody, 

I could wake a winter nicht, 

For the sake of somebody. 



SANDY O'ER THE LEE. 

Tune — " Sandy o'er the lee." 

I wiNNA marry ony man but Sandy ower the 

lee, 

I winna marry ony man but Sandy ower the lee j 

I winna hae the dominie, for gude he canna be ; 

But I will hae my Sandy lad, my Sandy ower 

the lee : 

For he's aye a-kissing, kissing, aye a-kiss 

ing me ; 
He's aye a-kissing, kissing, aye a-kissing me. 

I winna hae the minister, for all his godly looks ; 
Nor yet will I the lawyer hae, for a' his wily 

crooks ; 
I winna hae the ploughman lad, nor yet will I 

the miller. 
But I will hae my Sandy lad, without a penny 

siller. 

For he's aye a-kissing, ^c. 



I winna hae the sailor lad, because he smells o' 

tar ; 
I winna hae the lord, or laird, for a' their meikle 

gear. 
But I will hae my Sandy lad, my Sandy o'el 

the muir. 

For he's aye a-kissing, S^c. 



MY LOVE, SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET 

Tune—" My Love is but a lassie yet." 

My love, she's but a lassie yet; 
My love, she's but a lassie yet 



166 



BURNS' WORKS. 



ril let her stand u year or twa ; 
She'll no he half sae saucij yet. 



I KUE tlie day I sought her, O ; 
I rue the day I sought her, O ; 
Wlia gets her, needna say he's woo'd, 
But he may say he's bought her, O. 
My love, she's, 8^c. 

Come draw a drap o' the best o't yet : 
Come draw a drap o' the best o't yet 
Gae seek for pleasure where ye will — 
But here I never miss'd it yet. 
My love, she's, 8^e. 

We're a' dry wi' drinking o't ; 
We're a' dry wi' drinking o't ; 
The minister kiss'd the fiddler's wife, 
Ajid couldna preach for thinking o't. 
My love, she's, 8fc. 



MY WIFE HAS TA'EN THE GEE. 
Tune—" My Wife has ta'en the Gee." 

A FRIEND o' mine cam here yestreen, 

And he wad hae me down 
To drink a bottle o' ale wi' hira 

In the neist burrows town : 
But oh, indeed, it was, Sir, 

Sae far the waur for me ; 
For, lang or e'er that I cam hame, " 

My wife had tane the gee. 

We sat sae late, and drank sae stout, 

The truth I tell to you, 
That, lang or e'er the midnicht cam, 

We a' were roarin' fou. 
My wife sits at the fireside. 

And the tear blinds aye her ee ; 
The ne'er a bed wad she gang to, 

But sit and tak' the gee. 

In the mornin' sune, when I cam doun, 

The ne'er a word she spake ; 
But mony a sad and sour look. 

And aye her head she'd shake. 
My dear, quoth I, what aileth thee, 

To look sae sour on me ? 
I'll never do the like again, 

If you'll ne'er tak' the gee.* 

When that she heard, she ran, she flang 

Her arms about my neck ; 
And twenty kisses, in a crack ; 

And, poor wee thing, she grat. 
If you'll ne'er do the like again. 

But bide at hame wi' me, 
I'll lay my life, I'll be the wife 

That never taks the gee.* 



THE BONNIE LASS O' BRANKSOME 

ALLAN RAMSAY. 
Turn — " The Bonnie Lass o' Branksome.* 

As I came in by Teviot side. 

And by the braes of Branksonie, 
There first I saw my bonny bride. 

Young, smiling, sweet, and handsome. 
Her skin was safter than the down. 

And white as alabaster ; 
Her hair, a shining, waving brown; 

In straightness nane surpass'd her. 

Life glow'd upon her lip and cheek, 

Her clear een were surprising, 
And beautifully turn'd her neck. 

Her little breasts just rising : 
Nae silken hose with gushats fiine, 

Or shoon with glancing laces. 
On her bare leg, forbade to shine 

Weel-shapen native graces. 

Ae little coat and bodice white 

Was sum o' a' her claithing ; 
E'en these o'er muckle; — mair delyte 

She'd given clad wi' naething. 
We lean'd upon a flowery brae. 

By which a burnie trotted ; 
On her I glowr'd my soul away, 

While on her sweets I doated. 

A thousand beauties of desert 

Before had scarce alarm'd me, 
Till this dear artless struck my heart, 

And, bot designing, charm'd me. 
Hurried by love, close to my breast 

I clasp'd this fund of blisses, — 
Wha smiled, and said. Without a priest, 

Sir, hope for nocht but kisses. 

I had nae heart to do her harm, 

And yet I couldna want her ; 
What she demanded, ilka charm 

O' hers pled I should grant her. 
Since heaven had dealt to me a routh, 

Straight to the kirk I led her ; 
There plighted her my faith and trouth, 

And a young lady made her.* 



• From Kerl's collection, 1776. 



MY WIFE'S A WANTON WEE THING. 

Tune—" My wife's a wanton wee thing." 
My wife's a wanton wee thkig, 
My wife's a wanton wee thing, 



* This song, whic)i appeared in the Tea-Table 
Miscellanv, (1724), was founded upon a real incident. 
The boym'ie lass was daughter to a woman who kept 
an alehouse at the hamlet n ar Branksome Castle, in 
Teviotdale. A young nfhcer, of some rank,— his name 
we believe was Maitland,— hajinened to be be quarter- 
ed somewhere in the neighbourhood, saw, loved, and 
married her. So strange was such an alliance deemed 
in those days, that the old mother, under whose aus- 
pices it was performed, did not escape the imputation 
of witchcraft. 



SONGS. 



167 



My wife's a wanton wee thing ; 
She winna be guided by me. 

She play'd the loon ere she was married, 
She play'd the loon ere she was married, 
She play'd the loon ere she was married ; 
She'll do't again ere she die ! 

She sell'd her coat, and she drank it, 
She sell'd her coat, and she drank it, 
She rovv'd hersell in a blanket ; 
She winna be guided by me. 

She mind't na when I forbade her, 
She mind't na when I forbade her ; 
I took a rung and I claw'd her, 
And a braw gude bairn was she ! * 



WE'RE A' N0D1)[N. 

Tune—" Nid noddin.' 

O, we*re a* noddin, nid, nid, noddin, 
O, we're a' noddin, at our house at hame. 

How's a'- wi* ye, kimmer? and how do ye 

thrive ? 
And how mony bairns hae ye n )w ? — Bairns I 

hae five. 
And are they a' at hame wi' you ? — Na, na, na ; 
For twa o' them's been herdin' sin' Jamie gaed 
awa. 
And we're a' noddin, nid, nid, noddin ; 
And we're a noddin, at our house at hame. 

Grannie nods i' the neuk, and fends as she may, 
And brags that we'll ne'er be what she's been 

in her day. 
Vow ! but she was bonnie ; and vow ! but she 

was braw, 
And she had rowth o' wooers ance, I'se wai'rant, 

great; and sma.' 

And we're a' noddin, §*c. 

Weary fa* Kate, that she winna nod too ; 
She sits i' the corner, suppin* a' the broo ; 
And when the bit bairnies wad e'en hae their 

share, 
She gies them the ladle, but deil a drap's there. 
And we're a' noddin, 8fc. 

Now, fareweel, kimmer, and weel may ye thrive ; 
They sae the French is rinnin' for't, and we'll 

hae peace belyve. 
The bear's 'i the brear, and th3 hay's i' the stack, 
And a' '11 be right wi' us, gin Jamie were come 

back. 

And we're a noddin', Sfc. 



* From Johnson's Scots Musical Museum, vol. III. 
1790. The two first stanzas, however, appear in 
Herd's collection, 1776. 



MY NATIVE CALEDONIA. 

Sair, sair was my heart, when I parted frae my 

Jean, 
And sair, sair I sigh'd, while the tears stood ic 

my een ; 
For my daddie is but poor, and my fortune ii 

but sma' ; 
Which gars me leave my native Caledonia. 

When I think on days now gane, and how hap- 
py I hae been, 

While wandering wi' my dearie, where the prim- 
rose blaws unseen ; 

I'm wae to leave my lassie, and my daddie's sim- 
ple ha', 

Or the hills and healthfu' breeze o' Caledonia. 

But wherever I wander, still happy be my Jean ! 
Nae care disturb her bosom, where peace has 

ever been ! 
Then, though ills on ills befa' me, for her I'll 

bear them a', 
Though aft I'll heave a sigh for Caledonia. 

But should riches e'er be mine, and my Jeanit 

still be true, 
Then blaw, ye favourin' breezes, till my nativt" 

land I view ; 
Then I'll kneel on Scotia's shore, while the 

heart-felt tear shall fa'. 
And never leave mv Jean and Caledonia. 



O, AN YE WERE DEID, GUIDMAN 

Tune — •• O, an ye war deid, Guidman.** 

O, AN ye were deid, guidman, 
And a green truff on your held, guidman, 
That I might ware my widowheid 
Upon a rantin Highlandman. 

There's sax eggs in the pan, guidman, 
There's sax eggs in the pan, guidman ; 
There's ane to you, and twa to me, 
And three to our John Highlandman. 

There's beef into the pot, guidman, 
There's beef into the pot, guidman ; 
The banes for you, and the broe for me, 
And the beef for our John Highlandman. 

There's sax horse in the sta*, guidman, 
There's sax horse in the sta', guidman; 
There's ane to you, and twa to me. 
And three to our John Highlandman. 

There's sax kye in the byre, guidman. 
There's sax kye in the byre, guidman ; 
There's nane o' them yours, but there's t\r^ 

them mine. 
And the lave is our John Highland man's. 



BURNS' WORKS. 



OH, WHAT A PARISH! 

ADAM CRAWFORD. 

Bonnie Dundee." 



O, what a parish, what a terrible parish, 
O, what a parish is that of Dnnkell f 
Thei/ hae harujv. the minister, drouned the 
precentor, 
Drina down t?.e steeple, and drucken the 
lelU 

Fhouoh the steeple was doun, the kirk was still 
stanuin ; 
They biggit a lura where the bell used to hang ; 
A stell-pat they gat, and they brewed Hieland 
whii^ky ; 
On Sundays they drank it, and rantit and sang! 
O, what a parish, §'c. 

Oh, had you but seen how gracefu' it luikit, 
To see the crammed pews sae socially join ! 

Macdonald, the piper, stuck up i' the poupit, 
He made the pipes skirl sweet music divine ! 
O, what a parish, ^c. 

When the heart-cheerin spirit had mountit the 
garret, 
To a ball on the green they a' did adjourn ; 
Maids, wi' their coats kiltit, they skippit and 
hltit ; 
When tired, they shook hands, and a hame 
did return. 

O, what a parish, 8fc. 

Wad the kirks in our Britain haud sic social 
meetings, 
Nae warning they'd need frae a far-tinkling 
bell ; 
For true love and friendship wad ea' them the- 
gither, 
Far better than roaring o' horrors o' hell.* 
O, what parish, Sfc. 



OLD KING COUL. 

Old King Coul was a jolly old soul, 

And a jolly old soul was he ; 
Aud old King Coul he had a brown bowl, 

And they bro\ight him in fiddlers three ; 
And every tiddler was a very good fiddler. 

And a very good fiddler was he : 
Fiddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlers 
three : 
And there's no a lass in a' Scotland, 

Compared to our sweet Marjorie. 

Old King Coul was a jolly old soul. 
And a jolly old soul was he ; 

• Crawford, the inciter of this curious frolic, was a 
tailor in Edinburgh, and the author of some ^iher good 
•ongs. 



Old King Coul, he had a brown bowl. 
And they brought him in pipers three : 
Fla-diddle, how-diddle, ha-diddle, how-diddVe, 

went the pipers three ; 
Fiddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlers 
three : 
And there's no a lass in a' the land, 
Compared to our sweet Marjorie. 

Old King Coul was a jolly old soui, 

And a jolly old soul was he ; 
Old King Coul, he had a brown bowl, 
And thev brought him in harpers thi-ee : 
Twlngle-twangle, twingle-twangle, went the 

harpers ; 
Ka-diddle, how-diddle, ha-diddle, how-diddle, 

went the pipers ; 
Fiddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlers 
three : 
And there's no a lass in a' the land. 
Compared to our sweet Marjorie. 

Old King Coul was a jolly old soul, 
And a jolly old soul was he ; 
Old King Coul, he had a brown bowl, 

And they brought him in trumpeters three : 
Twarra-rang, twarra-raug, went the trumpet- 
ers ; 
Twingle-twangle, twingle-twangle, went the 

harpers ; 
Ha-diddle, how-diddle, ha-diddle, how-diddle, 

went the pipers ; 
Fi<l(lle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlers 
three : 
And there's no a lass in a' Scotland, 
Compared to sweet INIarjorie. 

Old King Coul was a jolly old soul. 

And a jolly old soul was he ; 
Old King Coul, he had a brown bowl. 

And they brought him in drummers three : 
Rub-a-rlub, rub-a-dub, went the drummers ; 
Twarra-raug, twarra-rang, went the trumpet- 
ers; 
Twingle-twangle, twingle-twangle, went the 

harpers ; 
Ha-diddle, how-diddle, ha-diddle, how-diddle, 

went the pipers ; 
Fiddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlera 
three : 
And there's no a lass in a' the land, 
Compared to sweet Marjorie. 



POVERTY PARTS GUDE COMPANIE. 



JOANNA BAILLIE. 



Todlin hame.' 



When white was my o'erlay as foam o' the linn, 
And siller was clinkin' my pouches within • 



30NGS. 



When my lambkins were bleating on meadow 

and brae ; 
As I gaed to my love in new deeding sae gay, 

Kind was she, 

And my Mends were free ; 

But poverty parts gude companie. 

How swift pass'd the minutes and hours of de- 

light ! 
The piper play'd cheerly, the crusie burn'd 

bright ; 
And link'd in my hand was the maiden sae dear, 
As she footed the floor in her holiday gear. 
Woe is me, 
And can it then be, 
That poverty parts sic companie ! 

We met at the fair, we met at the kirk, 

We met in the sunshine, and met in the mirk ; 

And the sounds of her voice, and the blinks of 

her een, 
The cheering and life of my bosom have been. 

Leaves frae the tree 

At Martinmas flee ; 

And poverty parts sweet companie. 

At bridal and infare I've braced me wi' pride ; 
The bruse I hae won, and a kiss o' the bride ; 
And loud was the laughter gay fellows among. 
When I utter'd my banter and chorus'd my song. 

Dowie to dree 

Are jesting and glee, 

When poverty parts gude companie. 

Wherever I gaed the blythe lasses smiled sweet. 

And mithers and aunties were mair than dis- 
creet, 

While kebbuck and bicker were set on the 
board ; 

But now they pass by me, and never a word. 
So let it be, 

For the worldly and slie 
Wi' poverty keep nae companie. 



WILLIE WAS A WANTON WAG. 

WILLIAM WALKINGSHAW OF WALKINGSHAW. 
Tune — " Willie was a wanton Wag." 

Willie was a wanton wag, 

The blythest lad that e'er I saw : 

At bridals still he bore the brag, 
And carried aye the gree awa. 

His doublet was of Shetland shag, 
And wow but Willie he was braw ; 

A.nd at his shouthers hung a tag- 
That pleased the lasses best of a'. 

He was a man without a clag ; 

His heart was frank, without a flaw ; 
And aye whatever Willie said. 

It stili was hadden as a law. 



His boots they were made of the jag, 
When he went to the weapon-shaw ; 

Upon the green uane durst him brag. 
The fient a ane amang them a'. 



And was not Willie weel worth 

He wan the love o' grit and sma' ; 
For, after he the bride had kiss'd. 

He kiss'd the las&es haill-sale a*. 
Sae meTily round the ring they row'd. 

When by the hand he led them a' ; 
And smack on smack on them bestow'd, 

By virtue of a standing law. 

And was na Willie a great loun. 

As shyre a lick as e'er was seen ? 
When he danced with the lasses round, 

The bridegroom spier'd where he had beeo 
Quoth Willie, I've been at the ring ; 

Wi' bobbin', faith, my shanks are sair j 
Gae ca' the bride and maidens in, 

For Willie he dow do na mair. 

Then rest ye, Willie, I'll gae out, 

And for a wee fill up the ring ; 
But shame licht on his souplc snout ' 

He wanted Willie's Vvfauton fling. 
Then straight he to the bride did fare, 

Says, Weel's me on your bonny face • 
With bobbin' Willie's shanks are sair, 

And I am come to fill his place. 

Bridegroom, says she, you'll spoil the dance. 

And at the ring you'll aye be lag. 
Unless like Willie ye advance ; 

Oh, Willie has a wanton leg ! 
For wi't he learns us a' to steer. 

And foremost aye bears up the ring ; 
We will find nae sic dancin' here. 

If we want Willie's wanton flina:. * 



THE AULD iVIAN'S MEAR'S DEAD. 

Tune—" The a u Id man's meat's dead." 

The mild man's mear's dead; 
The puir body's mear's dead ; 
The auld man's mear's dead^ 
A mile aboon £>undee. 

There v/as hay to ca', and lint to lead, 
A hunder hotts o' muck to spread, 
And peats and truffs and a' to lead — 
And yet the jaud to dee ! 

The auld man's, ^fc. 

She had the fiercie and the fleuk. 
The wheezloch and the wanton yeuk ; 
On ilka knee she had a breuk — 
What ail'd the beast to dee ? 
The auld man's, 8fc. 



* From the Tea-Table Miscellany, 1724. As it ii 
there signed by the initials of the author, there arises 
a presumption that he was alive, av.d a friend of Ram 
say, at the period of the publication ol that woilt. 



170 



BURNS' WORKS. 



She was lang-toothM and hiench-lippit, 
Heam-hougli'd and haggis-fittit, 
Lang-neckit, chandler-chaftit, 
And yet the jaud to dee ! • 

The auld man s, 8cc. 



ROY'S WIFE OF ALDIVALLOCH. 

MRS. GRANT OF CARRON. 

Tune—" The Ruffian's Rant." 

Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, 

Roy's wife of Aldivallocfi, 

Wat ye how she cheated me, 

A.S I came o'er the braes of JBalloch 9 

She vow'd, she swore, she wad be mine ; 

She said she lo'ed me best of onie ; 
But, ah ! the fickle, faithless quean, 

She's ta'en the carle, and left her Johnie. 
Roy's wife, Sfc. 

Oh, she was a canty quean, 

And weel could dance the Hieland walloch 
How happy I, had she been mine, 

Or I been Roy of Aldivalloch ! 
Roy's wife, ^c. 

Her hair sae fair, her een sae clear, 

Her wee bit mou' sae sweet and bonnie ! 

To me she ever will be dear. 

Though she's for ever left her Johnie. 
Roy^s wife, 8fc. 



STEER HER UP AND HAUD HER 

GAUN. 

Tune—" Steer her up and haud her gaun." 

O STEER her up and haud her gaun ; 
Her mother's at the mill, jo : 



But gin she winna tak a riiai:. 
E'en let her tak her will, jo. 

Pray thee, lad, leave silly thinking ; 
Cast thy cares of love away ; 

Let's our soirows drown in drinking ; 
'Tis daffin langer to delay. 

See that shining glass of claret, 

How invitingly it looks ! 
Take it aff, and let's have mair o't ; 

Pox on fighting, trade, and books ! 
Let's have pleasure, while we're able; 

Bring us in the meikle bowl ; 
Place't on the middle of the table; 

And let wind and weather gowl. 

Call the drawer ; let him fill it 

Fou as ever it can hold : 
Oh, tak tent ye dinna spill it ; 

'Tis mair precious far than gold. 
By you've drunk a dozen bumpers, 

Bacclius will begin to prove, 
Spite of Venus and her mumpers, 

Drinking better is than love. 



* The late Rev. Mr. Clunie, minister of the parish 
of Borthwick, near Edinburgh, (who was so enthusias- 
tically fond of singing Scottish songs, that he used to 
hang his watch round the candle on Sunday evenings, 
and wait anxiously till the conjunction of the hands at 
12 o'clock permitted him to break out in one of his 
favourite ditties), was noted for the admirable manner 
in which he sung " Bonny Dundee," " Waly, waly, 
up yon bank," " The Auld Man's Mear's dead," witli 
many other old Scottish ditties. One dav, haj)))ening 
to meet with some friends at a tavern in Dalkeith, he 
was solicited to favour the company with the latter 
humorous ditty; which he was accord. nglv singing 
with his usual effect and brilliancy, when the woman 
who kept the house thrust her head in at the door, and 
added, at the conclusion of one of the choruses, " Od. 
the auld man's mear's dead, sureeneuth. Vour horse, 
minister, has hanged itsell at my door." Such was 
really the fact. The minister, on going into the house, 
had tied his horse by a rope to a hook, or ring, near 
the door, and as he was induced to stay much longer 
thnn he intended, the poor animal, either through ex- 
haustion, or a sudden fit of disease, fell down, and was 
strangled. He was so much mortified by this unhappy 
accident, the coincidence of which with the subject of 
his song was not a little striking, that, all his life after, 
he could never be persuaded to sing " The Auld Man's 
Mear's dead" again 



SYMON BRODIE. 

Tune—" Symon Brodie." 

Symon BnoniE had a cow, 

The cow was lost, and he could na find her 
When he had done what man could do, 

The cow cam hame, and her tail behind het 
Honest auld Symon Brodie, 
Stupid auld doitit hodie ! 

Ill awa to the North countrie, 
And see my ain dear Symon Brodie. 

Symon Brodie had a wife. 

And, wow ! but she was braw and bonnie ; 
She took the dish-clout aff the bulk. 

And preen'd it to her cockernonie. 
Honest auld Symon Brodie, 8fc, 



NEIL GOW'S FAREWELL TO 
Y/HISKY. 

Tune—'' Far well to Whisky." 

You've surely heard o' famous Neil, 
The man that played the fiddle weel ; 
I wat he was a canty chiel, 

And dearly loe'd the whisky, O. 
And, aye sin he wore the tartan trews, 
He dearly lo'ed the Athole brose ; 
And wae was he, you may suppose. 

To play farewell to whisky, O. 

Alake, quoth Neil, I'm frail and auld. 
And find my bliide grow unco cauld ; 
I think 'twad make me blythe and bauldl 
A wee drap Highland whiskv, O. 





SONGS. 17! 


Yet the doctors tliey do a' agree. 


We'll tak her hame and mak her fain, j 


That whisky's no the drink for me. 


My ain kind-hearted lammie. 


Saul '. quoth Neil, 'twill spoil my glee, 


We'll gie her meat, we'll gie her claise, 


Should they part me and whisky, 0. 


We'll be her comfort a' her days. 




The wee thing gies her hand, and says*— 


Though I can baith get wine and ale, 


There ! gang and ask my mammy. 


And find my head and fingers hale, 




I'll be content, though legs should fail, 


Has she been to the kirk wi' thee. 


To play farewell to whisky, 


My boy Tammy ? 


But still I think on auld lang syne, 


She has been to the kirk wi' tae. 


When Paradise cur friends did tyne. 


And the tear was in her ee : 


Because something rau in their mind, 


For ! she's but a young thing, 


Forbid like Highland whisky, O. 


Just come frae her mammy. 


Come, a' ye powers o' music, come ; 
I find my heart grows unco glum ; 






My fiddle-strings will no play bum, 




To say, Fareweel to whisky, 0. 


THE WEE WIFIKIE. 


Yet I'll take my fiddle in my hand. 




And screw the pegs up while they'll stand, 


DR. A. GEDDES. 


To make a lamentation grand, 




On gude auld Highland whisky, 0. 


Tune—" The wee bit Wifikie." 




There was a wee bit wifikie was comin' fra« 




the fair, 
Had got a wee bit drappikie, that bred her 






muckle care ; 


THE LAIVLMIE. 


It gaed about the wifie's heart, and she began 




to spew . 


HECTOR MACNEILL. 


! quo' the wifikie, I wish I binna fou. 


Tune — " Whar hae ye been a' day." 


I wish I binna fou, I wish I binna fou, 




! quo' the wifikie, I wish I binna fou. 


Whar hae ye been a' day, 




My boy Tammy ? 


If Johnnie find me barley-sick, I'm sure he'll 


I've been by burn and flow'ry orae. 


claw my skin ; 


Meadow green and mountain grey, 


But I'll lie doun and tak a nap before that I 


Courting o' this young thing. 


gae in. 


Just come frae her mammy. 


Sittin' at the dyke-side, and takin' o' her nap, 




By cam a packman laddie, wi' a little pack. 


Aiid whar gat ye that young thing 


Wi' a little pack, quo she, wi' a little pack. 


My boy Tammy ? 


By cam a packman laddie, wi' a little pack. 


I got her down in yonder howe, 




Smiling on a bonnie knowe, 


He's clippit a' her gowden locks, sae bonnie and 


Herding ae wee lamb and ewe. 


sae lang ; 


For her poor mammy. 


He's ta'en her purse and a' her placks, and fast 




awa he ran : 


What said ye to the bonnie bairn, 


And when the wifie wakened, her head was 


My boy Tammy ? 


like a bee. 


I praised her een, sae lovely blue. 


Oh ! quo' the wifikie, this is nae me. 


Her dimpled cheek and cherry mou ; — 


This is nae me, quo' she, this is nae me ; 


I pree'd it afr, as ye may trow ! — . 


Somebody has been fellin' me, and this is nae 


She said she'd tell her mammy 

1 


me. 


I held her to my beating heart, 


I met wi' kindly company, and birl'd my baw- 


1 My young, ray smiling lammie ! 


bee ! ' 


1 I hae a house, it cost me dear. 


And still, if this be Bessikie, three placks re- 


I've wealth o' pleni^hen and gear ; 


main wi' me : 


Ye'se get it a', were't ten times mair, 


And I will look the pursie neuks, see gin the 


Gin ye will leave your mammy. 


cunyie be ; — 




There's neither purse nor plack about me , 


The smile gaed aff her bonnie face — 


This is nae me. 


I maunna leave my mammy. 


This is nae me, &c. 


She's gien me meat, she's gien me claise. 




She's been my comfort a' my days : — 


I have a little housikie, but and a kindly man . 


My father's death brought monie wae^— 


A dog, they ca' him Doussikie ; if this be me, 


I canna leave my mammy. 


he'll fawn • 





172 



BURNS' WORKS. 



And Johnnie he'll come to the door, and kindly 

welcoine gie, 
\nd a' the hairnvS on the floor-head will dance, 

if this be me. 
Will dance, if this be me, &c. 

The nicht was late, and dang out weet, a ad, 

oh, but it was dark ; 
The doggie heard a body's fit, and he began to 

bark : 
O, when she heard the doggie bark, and ken- 

nin' it was he, 
O, weel ken ye, Doussiekie, quo she, this is nae 

me- 
This is nae me, &e. 

When Johnnie heard his Bessie's word, fast to 

the door he ran : 
Is that you, Bessikie ? — Wow, na, man ! 
Be kind to the bairns a', and weil mat ye be ; 
And fareweel, Johnnie, quo' she, this is nae me. 
This is nae me, &.c. 

John ran to the minister ; his hair stood a' on 

end : 
I've gotten sic a fright, Sir, I fear I'll never 

mend ; 
My wife's come hame without a head, crying 

out most piteouslie : 
Oh, fareweel, Johnnie, quo' she, this is nae me ! 
This is nae me, &c. 

The tale you tell, the parson said, is wonderful 

to me, 
How that a wife without a head should speak, 

or hear, or see ! 
But things that happen hereabout so strangely 

alter'd be, 
That I cod:„ maist wi' Bessie say, *Tis neither 

you nor she ! * 
Neither you nor she, quo' he, neither you 

nor she ; 
Wow, na, Johnnie man, 'tis neither you nor 

she. 

Now Johnnie he cam hame again, and wow, 

but he was fain. 
To see his little Bessikie come to hersell again. 
He got her sittiu' on a stool, wi' Tibbock on 

her knee : 
O come awa, Johnnie, quo' she, come awa to 

me ; 
For I've got a dr.ip wi' Til)hikie, and this is 

now me. 
This is now me, quo' she, this is now me ; 
I've got a drap wi' Tibbikie, and this is now 

me. 



• A Jacobite allusion, probably to the change of the 
Stuart for the Brunswick dynasty, jn 1714. 



FAREWELL TO AYRSHIRE 



Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure. 
Scenes that former thoughts renew, 

Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, 
Now a sad and last adieu ! 

Bonny Doon, sae sweet and gloamin, 
Fare thee weel before I gang ! 

Bonny Doon, whare, early roaming, 
First I weav'd the rustic sang f 

Bowers, adieu, whare Love, decoying, 
First inthrall'd this heart o' mine, 

There the saftest sweets enjoying, — 
Sweets that Mem'ry ne'er shall tyne ! 

Friends, so near my bosom ever. 
Ye hae rendered moment's dear ; 

But, alas ! when forc'd to sever, 
Then the stroke, O, how severe ! 

Friends ! that parting tear reserve it, 
Tho' 'tis doubly dear to me 1 

Could I think I did deserve it, 
How much happier would I be ! 

Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure. 
Scenes that former thoughts renew, 

Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure. 
Now a sad and last adieu ! 



TIBBIE FOWLER.* 

Tune—" Tibbie Fowler." 

Tibbie Fowler o' the Glen, 

There's ower mony wooing at her ; 
Tibbie Fowler o' the Glen, 

There's ower mony wooing at her. 
TFbo/ra' at her, pu^in' at her, 

Courtin her, and carina get her ; 
Filthy elf, ifs for her pelf 

That a' the lads are wooing at her. 

Ten cam east, and ten cam west ; 
Ten cam rowin' ower the water : 



* Said to have been written by the Rev. Dr. 
Strnchan, late minister of Carnwath, although cer- 
tainly grounded upon a song of older standing, the 
name of which is mentioned in the Tea-Table Miscel- 
lany. The two first verses of the song appeared iu 
Herd's Collection, 1776. 

There is a tradition at Leith that Tibbie Fowler was 
a real person, and married, some time miring the se- 
venteenth century, to the representative of the attaint- 
ed family of Logan of Restairig, whose town-house, 
dated 16 jP, is still poinred out at the head of a street 
in Leith, called the Sheriff-brae. The marriage. con- 
tract between Logan and Isabella Fowler is still "extant, 
in the possession of a gentleman resident at Leitl .— 
See Campbell's History oj Leith, note, p. 314. 



SONGS. 



17S 



Twa cam down the lang dyke-side : 
There's twa-and-thirty wooin' at her. 
V/ooin^ at her, §"0. 

Tliere's seven but, and seven ben, 
Seven in the pantry wl' her ; 

Twenty head about the door : 

There's ane-and-forty wooin' at her. 
Wooin' at her, §"C. 

She's got pendles in her higs ; 

Cockle-shells wad set her better ! 
High -heel 'd shoon, and siller tags ; 

And a* the lads are wooin' at her. 
Wooin' at her, Sfc, 

Be a lassie e'er sae black, 

Gin she hae the penny siller, 

Set her up on Tintock tap. 

The wind will blaw a man till her. 
Wooin' at her, 8^c. 

Be a lassie e'er sae fair. 

An she want the penny siller, 

A. flie may fell her in the air, 
Before a man be even'd till her. 
Wooin' at her, Sec, 



ANNIE LAURIE.* 

Maxwelton banks are bonnie, 

Where early fa's the dew ; 
Where me and Annie Laurie 

Made up the promise true ; 
Made up the promise true, 

And never forget will I ; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 

I'll lay me doun and die. 

She's backit like the peacock ; 

She's breistit like the swan ; 
She's jimp about the middle ; 

Her waist ye weel micht span 
Her waist ye well micht span. 

And she has a rolling eye ; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 

I'll lav me doun and die. 



* These two verses, which are in a style wonderful- 
ly tender and chaste for their age, were written by a 
Jrlr. Douglas of Fingland, upon Anne, one of the four 
daughters of Sir Robert Laurie, first Baronet of Max- 
welton, by his second wife, who was a daughter of 
Riddell of Minto. As Sir Robert was created a ba- 
ronet in the year 1685, it is probable that the verses 
were composed about the end of t)ie seventeenth or the 
begiwDing of the eighteenth century. It is painful to 
recast, that, notwithstanding the ardent and chival- 
rous affection displayed by Mr. Douglas in his poem, 
he did not obtain the heroine for a wife: She was mar- 
ried to Mr. Ferguson of Craigdarroch.— See " A Bal- 
lad Book," (printed at Edinburgh in 1824), p. 107- 



THE BRISK YOUNG LAD. 

Tune-" Bung your eye in the morning." 

There cam a young man to my daddie's door 
My daddie's door, my daddie's door ; 
There cam a young man to my daddie's door. 
Cam seeking me to woo. 

A.nd wow ! hut he was a hraw young lad-. 
A. brisk young lad, and a braw young lad • 
And laow ! but he was a hraw young lad. 
Cam seeking me to woo. 

But I was baking when he came, 
When he came, when he came ; 
I took him in and gied him a scone. 
To thowe hiis rozen mou. 

And wow ! hut he was, 8fc. 

1 set him in aside the hink ; 
I gae him bread and ale to drink ; 
And ne'er a blythe styme wad he blink, 
Until his wame was fou. 

And wow ! but he loas, SfC, 

Gae, get you gone, you cauldrife wooer, 
Ye sour-looking, cauldrife wooer ! 
I straightway show'd him to the door, 
Saying, Come nae mair to woo. 

A?id wow ! but he was, §-c 

There lay a dcuk-dub before the door, 
Before the door, before the door ; 
There lay a deuk-dub before the dooi, 
And there fell he, I trow ! 

And wow ! but he was, ^e. 

Out cam the guidman, and high he shouted ; 
Out cam the guidwife, and laigh she louted ; 
And a' the toun-neebors were gather'd about it , 
And there lay he, 1 trow ! 

And wow ! hid he was, Sfc. 

Then out cam I, and sneer'd and smiled ; 
Ye cam to woo, but ye're a' beguiled ; 
Ye've fa'en i' the dirt, and ye're a' befvled ; 
We'll hae nae mair o' you ! 

And wow ! hut he was, 8^c. 



KIND ROBIN LO'ES ME. 
Tune — " Robin lo'esme." 

Robin is my only jo, 

For Robin has the art to lo'e ; 

Siie to his suit I mean to bow, 

Because I ken he lo'es me. 
Happy, happy was the shower. 
That led me to his birken bower, 
Where first of love I fand the power, 

And kenn'd that Robin lo'ed me. 

They speak of napkins, speak of t'^ngSf 
Sp<;dk of gluves and kissin' strings ; 



174 



BURNS' WORKS. 



And name a thousand bonnie tnings, 
And ca' thera signs he lo'es me. 

But I'd prefer a smack o' Rob, 

Seated on the velvet fog, 

To gifts as lang's a plaiden wf8b ; 
Because I ken he lo'es me. 

He's tall and sonsie, frank and free, 
Lo'ed by a', and dear to me ; 
Wi' him I'd live, wi' him I'd dee, 

Because my Robin lo'es me. 
My tittie JMary said to me, 
Our courtship but a joke wad be, 
And I or lang be made to see 

That Robin didna lo'e me. 

But little kens she what has been, 
Me and my honest Rob between ; 
And in his wooing, O sae keen 

Kind Robin is that lo'es me. 
Then fly, ye lazy hours, away. 
And hasten on the happy day, 
When, Join your hands. Mess John will say, 

And mak him mine that lo'es me. 

Till then, let every chance unite 
To fix our love and give delight, 
And I'll look dmvn on such wi' spite, 
Wha doubt that Robin lo'es me. 
O hey, Robin ! quo' she, 
O hey, Robin ! quo' she, 
O hey, Robin ! quo' she ; 
Kind Robin lo'es me. 



THE POETS, WHAT FOOLS THEY'RE 
TO DEAVE US. 

ROBERT GILFILLAN. 

Tune—" Fy, let us a' to the bridal." 

The poets, what fools they're to deave us, 

How ilka ane's lassie's sae fine ; 
The tane is an angel — and, save us ! 

The neist ane you meet wi's divine! 
And then there's a lang-nebbit sonnet, 

Be't Katie, or Janet, or Jean ; 
And the moon, or some far-awa planet's 

Compared to the blink o' her een. 

The earth an' the sea they've ransackit 

For sim'Iies to set oiF their charms ; 
And no a wee f.ow'r but s attackit 

By poets, like bumbees, in swarms. 
Now, what signities a' this clatter. 

By chiels that the truth winna tell ? 
Wad it no be settlic' '5:.& matter. 

To say, Lass, ye're just like your sell ? 

An' then there's nae end to the evil. 
For they are no deaf to the din — 

That like me ony puir luckless deevil 
Daur scarce look ciie gate they are in ] 



But e'en let them be, wl their seornin' ; 

There's a lassie whase name I could teU* 
Her smile is as sweet as the raornin* — 

But whisht ! T am ravin' mysell. 

But he that o' ravin's convickit. 

When a bonnie sweet lass he thinks on, 
May he ne'er get anither strait jacket 

than that buckled to by Mess John ! 
An' he wha — though cautious an' canny— 

The charms o' the fiiir never saw, 
Though wise as King Solomon's grannie, 

I swear is the daftest of a'. 



'TWAS WITHIN A MILE OF EDIN 
BURGH TOWN. 

TunC'—"' Within a mile of Edinburgh." 

'TwAS within a mile of Edinburgh town,* 

In the rosy time of the year ; 
Sweet flowers bloom'd, and the grass was down, 
And each shepherd woo'd his dear. 

Bonny Jockey, blythe and gay, 

Kiss'd sweet Jenny, making hay. 
The lassie blush'd, and frowning, cried, " N05 

no, it will not do ; 
I cannot, cannot, wonnot, wonnot, mannot hue 

kle too." 

Jockey was a wag that never would wed, 
Though long he had followed the lass ; 

Contented she earned and eat her own bread. 
And merrily turn'd up the grass. 
Bonny Jockey, blythe and free, 
Won her heart right merrily : 

Yet still she blush'd, and frowning, cried, " No, 
no, it will not do ; 

I cannot, cannot, wonnot, wonnot, mannot buc- 
kle too." 

But when he vow'd he would make her hii 
bride. 
Though his flocks and herds were not few, 

She gave him her hand, and a kiss beside. 
And vow'd she'd for ever be true. 
Bonny Jockey, blythe and free. 
Won her heart right merrily . 

At church she no more frowning, cried, " No, 
no, it will not do ; 

I cannot, cannot, wonnot, wonnot, mannot buc- 
kle too." 



MY LUVE'S IN GERMANIE. 

Tune — " My luve's in Germanic." 

My luve's in Germanic ; 

Send him hame, send him hame ; 
My luve's in Germanic ; 

Send him hame. 



SONGS. 



176 



My luve's in Girmanie, 
Fighting brave for royalty ; 
He may ne'er his Jeanie see ; 

Send him hame, send him hame ; 
He may ne'er his Jeanie see ; 

Send him hame. 

He's as brave as brave can be ; 

Send him hame, send him hame ; 
Our faes are ten to three ; 

Send him hame. 
Our faes are ten to three ; 
He maun either fa' or flee, 
in the cause of loyalty ; 

Send him hame, send him bame ; 
In the cause of loyalty ; 

Send him hame. 

Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, 

Bonnie dame, winsome dame ; 
Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, 

Winsome dame. 
Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, 
But he fell in Germanic, 
Fighting brave for loyalty, 

IMournfu' dame, mournfu' dame ; 
Fighting brave for loyalty, 

Mournfu' dame. 

He'll ne'er come ower the sea ; 

Willie's slain, Willie's slain ; 
He'll ne'er come ower the sea ; 

Willie's gane ! 
He will ne'er come ower the sea, 
To his luve and ain countrie. 
This warld's nae mair for me ; 

Willie's gane, Willie's gane ; 
This warld's nae mair for me ; 

Willie's gane ! 



TO THE KYE WI' IME. 

WAS na* she worthy o' kisses, 
Far mae than twa or three, 

And worthy o' bridal blisses, 
T\nia gaed to the kye wi' me. 

O gang to the kye wi' me, my love, 

Gang to the kve wi' me, 
Ower the burn and through the broomj 
And I'll be merry wi' thee. 

1 hae a house a biggin, 

Anither that's like to fa', 
And I love a scomfu' lassie, 
WTia grieves me warst of a'. 

O gang to the kye wi' me, my love, 

O gang to the kye wi' me. 
Ye'll think nae mair o' your mither 
Amang the broom wi' me. 

I hae a house a biirgin, 
Anither that's h'ke to fa'. 



I hae noo the lassie wi' bairn. 
Which vexes me warst of a'. 

gang to the kye wi' me, my love. 
Gang to the kye .wi' me, 

1 hae an auld mither at hame, 

Will doodle it on hei knee. 



THE MILLER O' DEE. 
Tune—" The Miller of Dee." 

There was a jolly miller once 

Lived on the river Dee ; 
He wrought and sung from morn till nighti 

No lark more blythe than he. 
And this the burden of his song 

For ever used to be ; 
I care for nobody, no, not I, 

If nobody cares for me. 
And this, §-c. 

Wlien spring began its merry career, 

O, then his heart was gay ; 
He feared not summer's sultry heat, 

Nor winter's cold decay. 
No foresight marred the miller's cheery 

Who oft did sing and say, 
Let others live from year to year, 

I'll live from day to day. 
]S^o foresight, 8j'c. 

Then, like this miller, bold and free, 

Let us be glad and sing ; 
The days of youth are made for glee, 

And life is on the wing. 
The song shall pass from me to you, 

Around this jovial ring. 
Let heart, and hand, and voice agree : 

And so, God save our king.* 
T/le song. See. 



SAW YE MY FATHER? 

Tune-^" Saw ye my father ?" 

" O SAW ye my father, or saw ye my mother, 

Or saw ye my true love John ?" 
" I saw not your father, I saw not vour mother 

But I saw your true love John." 

" It's now ten at night, and the stars gie nae 
light, 
And the bells they ring ding dong ; 
He's met with some delay, that causeth him ta 
btay ; 
But he will be here ere long." 

The surly auld carle did naething but snarle. 
And Jennie's face it grew red ; 



* From an old MS. copy. The song seems to have 
been first printed in Herd's Colleciion, 1776. 



176 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Yet, though he often sighed, be re'er a word 
replied, 
Till all were asleep ia bed. 

Up Johnie rose, and to the door he goes, 

And gently tirled at the pin. 
The lassie, taking tent, unto the door she went, 

And she opened and let him in. 

=' And are ye come at last, and do I hold ye fast ? 

And is my Johnie true ?" 
" I have nae time to tell, but sae lang's 1 like 
mysell, 

Sae lang sail I love you." 

" Flee up, flee up, my bonnie grey cock. 

And craw whan it is day : 
Your neck shall be like the bonnie beaten gowd. 

And your wings of the silver grey." 

The cock proved fause, and untrue he was ; 

For he crew an hour ower sune. 
The lassie thought it day, when she sent her 
love away, 

And it was but a blink o' the mune 



TAM O' THE BALLOCH 

H. AINSLEY. 

Tunc—" The Campbells are coming. 

In the Nick o' the Balloch lived Muirland Tarn, 
Weel stentit wi' brochan and braxie-ham ; 
A breist like a buird, and a back like a door, 
And a wapping wame that hung down afore. 

But what's come ower ye, Muirland Tam ? 
For your leg's now grown like a wheel-barrow 

tram ; 
Your ee it's faun in — your nose it's faun out, 
And the skin o* your cheek's like a dirty clout. 

ance, like a yaud, ye spankit the bent, 
Wi* a fecket sae fou, and a stocking sae stent, 
The strength o* a stot — the wecht o' a cow ; 
Now, Tammy, my man, ye're grown like a grew. 

1 mind sin' the blink o' a canty quean 

Could watered your mou and lichtit your een ; 
Now ye leuk like a yowe, when ye should be a 

ram ; 
O what can be wrang wi' ye, Muirland Tam ? 

Has some dowg o' the yirth set your gear abreed ? 
Hae they broken your heart or broken your head ? 
Hae they rackit wi* rungs or kittled wi' steel ? 
Or, Tammy, my man, hae ye seen the deil ? 

Wha ance was your match at a stoup and a tale ? 
Wi' a voice like a sea, and a drouth like a whale? 



Now ye peep like a powt ; ye glumph and jre 

gaunt ; 
Oh, Tammy, my man, are ye turned a saunt ? 

Come, lowse your heart, ye man o' the muir ; 
We tell our distress ere we look for a cure : 
There's laws for a wrang, and sa's for a sair ; 
Sae, Tammy, my man, what wad ye Lae mair ? 

Oh ! neebour, it neither was thresher nor thief, 
That deepened my ee, and lichtened my beef; 
But the word that makes me sae waefu' and wan, 
Is — Tam o' the Balloch's a married man \ 



HAUD AWA FRAE ME DONALD. 

Haud awa, bidp avva ! 

Hand awa frae me, Donald : 
I've seen the man I well could love, 
But that w^as never thee, Donald. 
Wi' plumed bonnet waiving proud. 

And claymore by thy knee, Donald, 

And Lord o' Moray's mountains high, 

Thou'rt no a match for me, Donald. 

Haud awa, bide awa, 

Haud awa frae me, Donald, 
What sairs your mountains and your locha, 
I canna swim nor flee Donald : 
But if ye' 11 come when yon fjiir sun 
Is sunk beneath the sea, Donald, 
I'll quit my kin, and kilt my cots. 
And take the hills wi' thee, Donald. 

One of the old verses runs thus :— 

Haud awa, bide awa, 

Haud awa frae me, Donald, 
Keep awa your cauld hand 

Frae my warm knee Donald. 



AULD ROB MORRIS. 
,Tune—" Auld Rob Morris." 

MOTHER. 

Auld Rob Morris, that wons in yon glen. 
He's the king o* guid fallows, and wale o' auld 

men ; 
He has fourscore o' black sheep, and fourscore 

too ; 
Auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun lo'e. 

DAUGHTER. 

Haud your tongue, mother, and let th.it abee ; 
For his eild and my eild can never agree : 
They'll never agree, and that will be seen ; 
For he is fourscore, and I'm but fifteen. 





SONGS. 177 


MOTHER. 


The auld wife bey out the /irtt 


flaud your tongue, dochter, and lay by your pride, 


The auld wife aniest the Jire, 


For he is the bridegroom, and ye'se be the bride ; 


The auld wife abnon the fire, 


He shall lie by yonr side, and kiss you too ; 


She died for lack tf snishing.* 


Auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun lo'e. 






Her mill into some hole had fawn, 


DAUGHTER. 


Whatrecks, quoth she, let it be gawn, 


Auld Rob Morris, I ken him fu' weel, 


For I maun hae a young goodman 


His back sticks out like ony peat-creel ; 


Shall furnish me with snishing. 


He's out- shinn'd, in-kneed, and ringle-eyed too ; 


The auld wife. Sec. 


Auld Rob Morris is the man I'll ne'er lo'e. 






Her eldest dochter said right bauld, { 


MOTHER. 


Fy, mother, mind that now ye're auld, 


Though auld Rob Morris be an elderly man, 


And if ye with a younker wald, 


Yet his auld brass will buy you a new pan ; 


He'll waste away your snishing. 


Then, dochter, ye should na be sa ill to shoe. 


I'he auld wife, ^c. 


For auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun lo'e. 


" 




The youngest dochter ga'e a shout, 


DAUGHTER. 


n)other dear ! your teeth's a' out, { 


But auld Rob Morris I never will hae. 


Besides ha'f blind, you have the gout, ' 


His back is so stiff, and his beard is grown grey ; 


Your mill can had nae snishing. 


I Lad rather die than live wi' him a year ; 


The aidd wife, SfC. 


6ae mair o' Rob Morris I never will hear. 






Ye lied, ye limmers, cries auld mump, 




For I hae baith a tooth and stump, 
And will nae langer live in dump. 




1 


By wanting of my snishing. 


THE MALT-IMAN. 


The auld ivife, §-c. 


The malt-man comes on Munday, 


Thole ye, says Peg, that pawky slut, ' 


He craves wonder sair. 


Mother, if ye can crack a nut, j 


Cries, Dame, come gi'e me my siller, 


Then we will a' consent to it. 


Or malt ye sail ne'er get mair. 


That you shall have a suishing. 


I took him into the pantry. 


The auld wife, 8fc. 


And gave him some good cock-broo, 




Syne paid him upon a gantree^ 


The auld ane did agree to that. 


As hostler-wives should do. 


And they a pistol-bullet gat ; 




She powerfully began to crack, 


When malt-men come for siller, 


To win hersell a snishing. 


And gaugeis with wands o'er soon, 


The auld wife, 8fc. 


Wives, tak them a' down to the cellar. 




And clear them as I have done. 


Braw sport it was to see her chow't, ! 


This bewith, when cunzie is scanty, 


And 'tween her gums sae squeeze and row't 


Will keep them frae making din ; 


While frae her jaws the slaver flow'd, 


The knack I learn 'd frae an auld aunty, 


And ay she curs'd poor stumpy. 


The snackost of a' my kin. 


The auld wife, Sfc. 


The malt-man is right cunning, 


At last she ga'e a desperate squeez. 


But I can be as sloe, 


Which brak the lang tooth by the neei. 


And he may crack of his winning, 


And syne poor stumpy was at ease. 


When he clears scores with me ; 


But she tint hopes of snishing. 


i For come when he likes, I'm ready ; 


The auld wife, Sfc. 


But if frae hame I be, 




Let him wait on our kind lady, 


She of the task began to tire, 


She'll answer a bill for me. 


And frae her dochters did retire, 




Syne lean'd her down ayont the fire, 




And died for lack of snishing. 

The auld tvife, 8fc. j 




THE AULD WIFE BEYONT THE FIRE. 


Ye auld wives, notice well this truth. 




Assoon as ye're past mark of mouth. 


There was a wife won'd in a glen, 
And she had dochters nine or ten. 






That sought the house baith but and ben, 


» Snishmg, in its literal meaninsj, is sniiJf made erf 


1 To find their mam a snishing. 


tobacco ; but, in this song, it means sometimes con- 
tentment, a Imsband, love, money, Ac. 


t 


2 

1 



\ 


178 BURNS' 


WORKS. 


Ne'er do what's only fit for youth, 


And when sht drew the curtam by, 


And leave afF thoughts of snishing ; 


Young man, I think you're dying 1 


£Jls€, like this wife heyont the fire. 




YeW bairns against you will conspire ; 


its I'm sick, and very very sick, 


Nor will ye get, unless ye hire. 


And 'tis a' for Barbara Allan. 


A young man with your snishing. 


the better for me ye's never be, 




Tho' your heart's blood were a- spilling 
dinna ye mind, young man, said she. 


1 




When he was in the tavern a-drinking, 


BESSY BELL AND MARY GRAY. 


That ye made the healths gae round and round, 




And slighted Barbara Allan ? 


BESSY Bell and Mary Gray, 




1 They are twa bonny lassies, 


He turn'd his face unto the wall, 


1 They bigg'd a bow'r on yon burn-brae, 


And death was with him dealing ; 


j And theek'd it o'er wi' rashes. 


Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all, 


Fair Bessy Bell I loo'd yestreen, 


And be kind to Barbara Allan. 


And thought I ne'er could alter ; 




But Mary Gray's twa pawky een, 


And slowly, slowly raise she up, 


1 They gar my fancy falter. 


And slowly, slowly left him ; 


1 


And sighing, said, she coii'd not stay, 


Now Bessy's hair's like a lint tap ; 


Since death of life had reft him. 


! She smiles like a May morning, 




When Phoebus starts fiae Thetis' lap, 


She had not gane a mile but twa. 


The hills with rays adorning : 


When she heard the dead-bell ringing, 


} White is her neck, saft is her hand, 


And every jow that the dead-bell gied 


1 Her waist and feet's fu' genty ; 


It cry'd, Wo to Barbara Allan. 


With ilka grace she can command ; 




Her lips, wow ! they're dainty. 


mother, mother, make my bed. 




make it saft and narrow, 


! And Mary's locks are like a craw, 


Since my love dy'd for me to-day, 


[ Her een like diamonds glances ; 


I'll die for him to-morrow. 


j She's ay sae clean, redd up, and braw, 




She kills whene'er she dances : 
Blythe as a kid, with wit at will. 






j She blooming, tight, and tall is ; 




i And guides her airs sae gracefu' still. 


ETTRICK BANKS. 


Jove, she's like thy Pallas. 




1 Dear Bessy Bell and Mary Gray, 
j 1 Ye unco sair oppress us ; 
1 \ Our fancies jee between you twa, 
j 1 Ye are sic bonny lassies : 
1 j Wae's me ! for baith I canna get, 
To ane by law we're stented ; 
! Then I'll draw cuts, and take my fate, 
And be with ane contented. 


On Ettrick banks, in a summer's night, 

At glowming when the sheep drave haine, 
I met my lassie braw and tight, 

Came wuding, barefoot, a' her lane : 
My heart grew light, I ran, I flang 

My arms about her lily neck. 
And kiss'd and clapp'd her there fou lang ; 

My words they were na mouy, feck. 




I said, my lassie, will ye go 




To the highland hills, the Earse to learn 




i 


I'd baith gi'e thee a cow and ew. 


BONNY BARBARA ALLAN. 


When ye come to the brigg of Earn. 


. 


At Leith, auld meal comes in, ne'er fash. 


1 It was in and about the Martinmas time. 


And herrings at the Broomy Law ; 


1 When the green leaves were a-falling. 


Chear up your heart, my bonny lass, 


That Sir John Graeme in the west country 


There's gear to win we never saw. 


1 1 Fell in love with Barbara Allan. 




1 1 


All day when we have wrought enough. 


{ He sent his man down through the town. 


When winter, frosts, and snaw begin, 


j 1 To the place where she was dwelling. 


Soon as the sun gaes west the loch. 


! ' haste, and come to my master dear, 


At night when you sit down to spin, 


i Gin ye be Barbara Allan. 


I'll screw my pipes and play a spring : 


! 


And thus the weary night will end. 


j O hooly, hooly rose sle up, 


Till the tender kid and lamb- time bring 


j To the place where he was lying, 

1 


Our pleasant summer back again. 


1 """"""! 



SONGS. 



179 



Syne when the trees are in their bloom, 

And gowans glent o'er ilka field, 
I'll meet my lass among the broom, 

And lead you to my summer-shield. 
Then far frae a' their scornfu' din. 

That make the kindly hearts their sport, 
We'll laugh and kiss, and dance and sing. 

And gar the langest day seem short. 



THE BIRKS OF INVERMAY.* 

DAVID MALLET. 

Tune—" The Birks of Invennay. 

The smiling morn, the breathing spring, 

Invite the tunefu' birds to sing ; 

And, while they warble from the spray, 

Love melts the universal lay. 

Let us, Amanda, timely wise. 

Like them, improve the hour that flies ; 

And in soft raptures waste the day, 

Among the birks of Invermay. 

For soon the winter of the year. 
And age, life's winter, will appear ; 
At this thy living bloom will fade, 
As that will strip the verdant shade. 
Our taste of pleasure then is o'er, 
The feather'd songsters are no more ; 
And when they drop, and we decay, 
Adieu the birks of Invermay ! 



THE BRAES O' BALLENDEAN. 

DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Tune—" The Braes o' Ballendean." 

Beneath a green shade, a lovely young swain 
Ae evening reclined, to discover his pain ; 
So sad, yet so sweetly, he wasbled his woe. 
The winds ceased to breathe, and the fountain to 

flow ; 
Rude winds wi' compassion could hear him 

complain, 
Yet Chloe, less gentle, was deaf to his strain. 



* Invermay is a small woody glen, watered by the 
rivulet May, which there joins the river Earn. It is 
about five miles above che bridge of Earn, and nearly 
nine from Perth. The seat of Mr Belsches, the pro- 
prietor of this poetical region, and who takes from it 
his territorial designation, stands at the bcx.tom of the 
glen. Both sides of the little vale are completely wood- 
ed, chiefly with birches; and it is altogether, in point 
of natural loveliness, a scene worthy of the attention 
of the amatory muse. The course of the May is so 
sunk among rocks, that it cannot be seen, but it can 
easily be traced in its progress by another sense. The 
peculiar sound which it makes in rushing through one 
particular part of its narrow, rugged, and tortuous 
channel, has occasioned the descriptive appellation of 
the Humble-Bumble to be attachc.'d to that quarter of 
the vale. Invermay may be at once and coiTCCtly de- 
scribed as the fiirest poss'ible little miniature specimen 
i)f cascade scenery. 

The song appeared in the 4th volume of the Tea- 
Vable Miscellanv. 



How happy, he cried, my moments once flew. 
Ere Chloe's bright charms first flash'd in my 

view ! 
Those eyes then wi' pleasure the dawn could 

survey ; 
Nor smiled the fair morning mair cheerful than 

they. 
Now scenes of distress please only my sight ; 
I'm tortured in pleasure, and languish in light. 

Through changes in vain relief I pursue, 
All, all but conspire my griefs to renew ; 
From sunshine to zephyrs and shades we repair — 
To sunshine we fly from too piercing an air ; 
But love's ardent fire burns always the same, 
No winter can cool it, no summer inflame. 

But see the pale moon, all clouded, retires ; 
The breezes grow cool, not Strephon's desires : 
I fly from the dangers of tempest and wind. 
Yet nourish the madness that preys on my mind. 
Ah, wretch i how can life be worthy thy care "i 
To lengthen its moments, but lengthens despair. * 



THE BRUME O' THE COWDEN- 
KNOWES. 

Tune — " The Brume o' the Cowdenknowes." 

How blyth, ilk morn, was I to see 

iVIy swain come ovv^er the hill ! 
He skipt the burn and flew to me : 
I met him with good will. 

Oh, the hrume, the bonnie, hnnnie brume t 

The brume o' the Cowdenknowes / 
I wish I were with my dear swain, 
With his pipe and my yowes. 

I wanted neither yowe nor lamb, 

While his flock near me lay ; 
He gather'd in my sheep at night, 

And cheer'd me a' the day. 

Oh, the brume, §*c. 

He tuned his pipe, and play'd sae sweet, 

The birds sat listening bye ; 
E'en the dull cattle stood and gazed, 

Charm 'd with the melodye. 

Oh, the brume, 8fc. 

^'^^li]e thus we spent our time, by turns, 

Betwixt our flocks and play, 
I envied not the fairest dame, 

Though e'er so rich or gay. 

Oh, the brume, §c. 



* The celebrated Tenducci used to sing this song^ 
wiih great effect, in St. Cfcilia's Hall, at Edinburgh, 
about fifty vears ago. Mr. Tytler, who was a great pa- 
tron of that obsolete place of amusement, says, in his 
Dissertation on Scottish Music, " Who could heai 
with insensibility, or without being moved in the high- 
est depree, ! endiicci sint', ' I'll '.ever leave tliee,' or, 
' The Braes o' Ballendean.' The air was composed bj 
Oswald. 



180 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Hard fate, that I should banish'd be, 
Gang heavily, and moiiin, 

Because I loved the kindest swain 
That ever yet was born. 

Oh, the brume, 8fc. 

He did oblige me every hour ; 

Could I but faithful be ? 
He stavve my heart ; could I refuse 

Whate'er he ask'd of me ? 

Oh, the brume, 8fc. 

My doggie, and ray little kit 
I That held ray wee soup whey, 

My plaldie, brooch, and crookit stick, 
May now lie useless by. 

Oh, the brume, 8fc. 

Adieu, ye Cowdenknowes, adieu ! 

Fareweel, a' pleasures there ! 
Ye gods, restore rae to ray swain — 

Is a' I crave or care. 

Oh, the brume, Sfc.* 



THE CARLE HE CAM OWER THE 
CRAFT. 

Tune—-" The Carle he cam ower the Craft." 

The carle he cam ower the craft, 

Wi' his beard new-shaven ; 
He looked at me as he'd been daft, — 

The carle trowed that I wad hae him. 
Hout awa ! I winna hae him ! 

Na, forsooth, I winna hae him ! 
For a' his beard new- shaven. 

Ne'er a bit o' me will hae him. 

A siller brooch he gae rae neist, 

To fasten on my curchie nookit ; 
I wore 't a wee upon my breist, 

But soon, alake ! the tongue o't crook" j 
And sae may his ; I winna hae him ! 

Na, forsooth, I winna hae him ! 
Twice-a-bairu's a lassie's jest ; 

Sae ony fool fof me may hae him. 

The carle has nae fault but ane ; 

For he has land and dollars plenty ; 
But, wae's me for hira, skin and bane 

Is no for a plump lass of twenty. 
Hout awa, I winna hae him ! 

Na, forsooth, I winna hae him ! 
What signihes his dirty rijrgs. 

And cash, without a man wi' them ? 



But shoidd my ankert daddie gar 

Me tak him 'gainst my inclination, 
1 warn the funiblor to beware 

Th:it antlers dinna claim their station 
Hout awa ! I winna hae hira ! 

Na, forsooth, I winna hae him ! 
I'm flee'd to crack the haly band, 

Sae lawty says, I shou'd na hae him 



* As the reader may be supposed anxious to know 
tomethiiif^ of the place which has thus been the subject 
of so much poetry, theeditor thinks it proper to inform 
him, that, " the Cowdenknowes," or, as sometimes 
Bpelled in old writings, tlie Coldingknowes, are two 
little hills on the east side of the vale of Lauderdale, 
Berwickshire. They lie immediately to the south of 
the village of Earlston, celebrated as the residence of 
♦he earliest known Scottish poet, Thomas the Rhymer. 



THE WEE THING. 

MACNEIL. 

Tune—" Bonnie Dundee." 

Saw ye my wee thing ? saw ye my ain thing? 

Saw ye my true love down on yon lea? 
Cross'd blie the meadow yestreen at the gloan*- 
in' .? 
Sought she the burnie whar flow'rs the haw- 
tree ? 

Her hair it is lint-white ; her skin it is milk 
white ; 

Dark is the blue o' her saft-rolling ee ; 
Red red her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses : 

Whar could my wee thing wander frae me ? — 

I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain 
thing. 
Nor savv 1 your true love down on yon lea ; 
But I met my bonnie thing late in the gloamin. 
Down by the burnie whar flow'rs the haw- 
tree. 

Her hair it was lint- white ; her skin it was 

milk-white ; 
Dark was the blue o' her saft-rolling ee ; 
Red were hei- ripe lips, and sweeter than roses ; 
Sweet were the kisses that she gae to me !^ — > 

It was na my wee thing, it was na ray ain 
thing, 

It was na my true love ye met by the tree : 
Proud is her leal heart ! and modest her nature ! 

She never loed onie till ance she loed me. 

Her name it is Mary ; she's frae Castle- Cary; 

Aft has she sat, when a bairn, on my knee : 
Fair as your face is, war't fifty times fairer, 

Young hragger, she ne'er would gie kisses to 
thee ! — 

It was, then, yoiir Mary ; she's frae Castle- 
Cary ; 
It was, then, your true love I met by the 
tree : 
Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature. 
Sweet were the kisses that she gae to me. — 

Sair gloom'd his dark brow — blood-red hi« 
cheek grew — 
Wild flash'd the fire frae his red-rolling ec ' 



SONGS. 



81 



M 



\e'se rue sair, this morning, your boasts and 
your scorning 
Defend ye, fause traitor I tor I 



\e lie. — 



Awa vFi' l)eguiling cried the youth, smiling : 
Aff went the bonnet; the lint-white locks 
flee; 
"'he belled plaid ta'iug, her white bosom shaw- 

i\ur stood the loved maid wi* the dark-roll- 



ing ee 



Is it my T/ee thing i is it mine ain thing ! 

Is it my true love here that I see ! — 
Jamie, forgie me ; your heart's constant to 

me ; 
IR never mair wander, dear I ddie, frae thee ! 



THE WHITE COCKADE. 

Ttine—" The White Cockade." 

Mv love was born in Aberdeen, 
The bonniest lad that e'er was seen ; 
But now he makes our hearts fu' sad — 
He's ta'en the field wi' his white cockade. 

O, lie's a r(xnt'mg roving blade ! 

O, he's a brisk and a bonny lad ! 

Betide tchat may, my Iteart is glad 

To see my lad wV his white cockade. 

O, leeze me on the philabeg, 
Tlie hairy hough, and garter'd leg ! 
But aye the thing that glads my ee. 
Is the white co(;kade abotm the bree. 
O, he's a ranting, Sfc. 

I'll sell my I'ock, I'll sell my reel, 
]My ripjding kame, and spinning wheel, 
To buy my lad a tartan plaid, 
A braidsword and a white cockade. 
O, he's a ranting, 8fc. 

I'll sell my rokely and my tow. 
My gude grey mare and hawket cow, 
That every loyal Buchan lad 
May tak the field wi' his white cockade. 
O \e's a ranting, &(■€. 



THE WIDOW. 



ALLAN RAMSAY. 



TLp widow she's youthiiil, --nu never ae hair^ 
Ihe waur of the wearing, and has a good skair 
Of every thi-.g lovely ; she's witty and fair, 

And has a rich jointure, my laddie- 
WKat could ve wish better, your pleasure tc 

crown, 
Than a widow, the bonniest toast in the town, 
With, Naething but — draw in your shiol itvl -•■ 
down. 

And s]>ort with the widow, my laddie. 

Then till her, and kill her with courtesie dead, 
Though stark love and kindness be all you cat 

plead ; 
Be heartsome and airy, and Ijope to succeed 

With the bonnie gay widow, my laddie. 
Strike iron while 'tis het, if ye'd Lave it to 

waVr^ ; 
For fortune ay favours the active and bauld, 
But ruins the wooer that's thowless and cauld, 
Unfit for the widow, my laddie. 



The widow can bake, and the widow can brew, 
The widow can shape, and tlie widow can sew. 
And mony braw things the widow can do ; 

'1 hen have at the widow, my laddie. 
With courage attack her, baith early and late : 
To kiss her and clap her ye inaunna be blate : 
Speak well, and do better ; for that's the best 
gate . 

To win a young widow, my laddie. 



THE YELLOW-HAIR'D LADDIE. 



OLD VEIISES. 

Tunt—" The yello'.v-hair'd Laddi».*' 

The yellow-hair'd laddie sat down on yon brae, 
Cried, Milk the yowes, lassie, let nane o" them 

gae; 
And aye as she railkit, she merrily sang. 
The yellow-hair'd laddie shall be my gudeman. 
And aye as she milkit, she merrily sang. 
The yellow-hair'd laddie shall be my gude- 
man. 

The weather is cauld, and my cleadin is thin. 
The yowes are new dipt, and they winna bucht 

in; 
They winna bucht in, although I should dee ; 
Oh, yellow-haird'd laddie, be kind unto me. 
And aye as she milkit, §-c. 

The gudewife cries butt the house, Jennie, come 

ben ; 
The cheese is to mak, and the butter's to kirn. 
Though butter, and cheese, and a' should gang 

sour, 
I'll crack and I'll kiss wi' my love ae half hour. 
It's ae lang half hour, and ice II e'en mak it 

three. 
For the yelloiv-haird laddie my gudeman 
shall 



M 




182 



BURNS' WOllXS. 



THE YOUNG LAIRD AND EDINBURGH 
KATIE. 



Tune—" Tartan Screen." 

Now wat ye wha T met yestreen, 

Coming down the street, my joe ? 
My mistress, in her tartan screen, 

Fu' bonnie, braw, and sweet, my joe I 
My dear, quoth I, thanks to the nicht 

That never wiss'd a lover il], 
Sin* ye're out o* your mither's sicht, 

Let's tak' a walk up to the hill.* 

Oh., Katie, wilt thou gang wi' me, 

And leave the dinsome toun a while ? 
The blossom's sprouting frae the tree, 

And a' creation's gaun to smile. 
The mavis, nichtingale, and lark. 

The bleating lambs and whistling hynd, 
In ilka dale, green shaw, and park, 

Will nourish health, and glad your mind. 

Sune as the clear gudeman o' day 

Does bend his mornin' draught o' dew, 
We'll gae to some burn-side and play, 

And gather flouirs to busk your brow. 
We'll pou the daisies on the green. 

The lucken-gowans frae the bog ; 
Between hands, now and then, we'll lean 

And sport upon the velvet fog. 

There 's, up into a pleasant glen, 

A wee piece frae my father's tower, 
A canny, saft, and flowery den. 

Which circling birks have form'd a bower. 
Whene'er the sun grows high and warm, 

We'll to the caller shade remove ; 
There will I lock thee in my arm, 

And love aai kiss, and kiss and love. 



MY MOTHER'S AYE GLOWRIN* OWER 

ME; 

IN ANSWER TO THE YOUNG LAIRD AND 
EDINBURGH KATY. 



A une-~" My Mother's aye glowrm' ower me." 

^Iy mother's aye glowrin' ower me. 
Though she did the same before me ; 



* It is quite as remarkable as it is true, that tlie 
mode of courtship among people of tlie middle ranks 
in Edinburgh has undergone a complete change 
in the course of no more than the last thirty years. 
It used to be customary for lovers to walk together 
for hours, both during the day and the evening, in 
th«} Meadows, or the Kiiij^'s Park, or the fields now 
occupied by the New Town ; practices now only 
known to artizans and serving-girls. 

The song appeared in the Tea-Table Miscellany, 
"24. 



I canna get leave 
To look at my love, 
Or else she'd be like to devour me. 

Right fain wad I tak' your offer. 
Sweet Sir — but I'll tyne ray tocher 
Then, Sandy, ye'll fret, 
And wyte your puir Kate, 
Whene'er ye keek in your tooni coffer 

For though my father has pletiry 
Of silver, and plenishing dainty, 

Yet he's unco sweir 

To twine wi' his gear ; 
And sae we had need to be tenty. 

Tutor my parent'- wi' caution, 

Be wylie in ilka i otion ; 

Brag weel o' jomv land, 
And, there's my leal hand, 

Win them, I'll be at your devotion. 



WANDERING WILLIE. 



OLD VERSES. 



Wandering Willie." 

Here awa, thei-e awa, wandering Willie ' 
Here awa, there awa, baud awa hame ; 

Lang have I sought thee, dear have I bougie 
thee ; 
Now I have gotten my Willie again. 

Thi-ough the lang muir I have follo\ved my 
Willie ; 
Through the lang muir I have followed him 
hanie. 
Whatever betide us, nought shall divide us ; 
Love now rewards all my sorrow and pain. 

Here awa, there awa, here awa, Willie ! 

Here awa, there awa, here awa, hame ! 
Come, love, believe me, nothing can grieve me, 

Ilka thing pleases, when Willie's at hame. * 



CAM* YE O'ER FRAE FRANCE. 

Cam' ye o'er frae FratK*, came ye doun by 

Lunnon, 
Saw ye Geordie Whelps and his bonny woman 
War' ye at the place ca'd the kittle-housie, 
Saw ye Geordie's grace, ridin' on a goosie. 

Geordie lie's a man, there 's little doubt o't, 
He's done a' he can, wha can do without it ; 
Down there cam' a blade, dnkin'like a lordie. 
He wad drive a trade at the loom o' Geordie.j 



* From Herd's Collection, 3776. 
t This plainly alludes to Count Koningsmarb 
and the Queen. 



SONGS. 



18d 



ITic the clait> were bad, hlythely may we niflFer. 
Gin we get a wab, it mak's little difier ; 
We hae tint our plaid, bonnet, belt and swordie, 
Ha's and mail! ins braid, but we hae a Geordie. 

Hey for Sandy Don, hey for cockolorum, 

Hey for Bobbin' John and his Highland quo- 
rum ; 

Many a sword and lance swings at Highland 
hurdie, 

How they'll skip and dance o'er the bum o' 
Geordie. 



THE HIGHLAND LADDIE. 

ANOTHER SET. 

The lawland lads think they are fine ; 
But O they're vain and idly gaudy ! 

How much unlike tnat gracefu' mien, 
And manly looks of my highland laddie ? 
O my honny, bonny highland laddie, 
My handsome, charming highland laddie ; 
May heaven still guard, and love reward 
Our lawland lass and her highland laddie. 

If I were free at will to chuse 

To be the wealthiest lawland lady, 

I'd take young Donald without trews, 
With bonnet blue, and belted plaidy. 
O my bonny, Sfc. 

The brawest beau in borrows- town, 
In a' his airs, with art n?W« ready, 

Compar'd to him, he's but a cl(Wn ; 
He's finer far in's tartan plaioy. 
O my bonny, 8fc. 

O'er benty hill with him I'll run, 

And leave my lawland kin and dady ; 

Frae winter's cauld, and summer's sun. 
He'll screen me with his highland plaidy. 
O my bonny, 8fc. 

A painted room, and silken bed, 

May please a lawland laird and lady ; 

But I can kiss, and be as glad, 

Behind a bush in's highland plaidy. 
my bonny, 8fc. 

Few compliments between us pass, 
I ca' him my dear highland laddie, 

And he ca's me his lawland lass, 

Syne rows me in beneath his olaidy. 
O my bonny, 8fc. 

Nae greater joy I'll e'er pretend. 

Than that his love prove true and steady, 

Like mine to him, which ne'er shall end, 
While heaven preserves my highland laddie. 
O my bonny, ^c. 



JENNY NETTLES. 

Saw ye Jenny Nettles, 

Jenny Nettles, Jenny Nettles, 
Saw ye Jenny Nettles 

Coming frae the market ? 
Bag and baggage on her back, 

Her fee and bountith in her lap ; 
Bag and baggage on her !>ack. 

And a babie in her oxtei ? 

I met ayont the kairny, 

Jenny Nettles, Jenny Nettles, 
Singing till her bairny, 

Robin Rattle's bastard ; 
To flee the dool upo' the stool, 

And ilka ane that mocks her, 
She round about seeks Robin out, 

To stap it in his oxter 

Fy, fy ! Robin Rattle, 

Robin Rattle, Robin Rattle; 
Fy, fy ! Robin Rattle, 

Use Jenny Nettles kindly : 
Score out the blame, and shun the shamCy 

And without mair debate o't, 
Tak hame your wean, make Jenny fain 

The leel and leesome gate o't. 



O MERRY MAY THE MAID BE 

SIR JOHN CLERK OF PENNYCUICK. 

Tune—" Merry may the Maid be." 

O, MERRY may the maid be 

That marries the miller j 
For, foul day or fair day. 

He's aye bringing till her. 
H'as aye a penny in his pouch, 

For dinner or for supper ; 
Wi' beef, and pease, and melting cheesy 

An' lumps o' yellow butter. 

Behind the door stands bags o' meal, 

And in the ark is plenty, 
And good hard cakes his mither bakes, 

And mony a sweeter dainty. 
A good fat sow, a sleeky cow. 

Are standing in the byre ; 
Whilst winking puss, wi'' mealy mou. 

Is playing round the fire. 

Good signs are these, my mither says, 

And bids me take the miller ; 
A miller's wife's a merry wife. 

And he's aye bringing till her. 
For meal or maut she'll never want, 

Till wood and water's scanty ; 
As lang's there's cocks and clockin hen%, 

She'll aye hae eggi in plenty. 



iS^ 



BURNS' WORKS. 



THE TAILOR. 

The Tailoi fell thro' the bed thimbles an' a*, 
The Tailor fell thro' tlie bed thimbles an' a*, 
The blaukets were thin and the sheets they were 

sma', 
The Tailor fell thro' the bed thimJ^Ies an' a'. 

The lassie was sleepy and thought on nae ill ; 
The weather was cauld and the lassie lay still ; 
The ninth part o' manhood may sure hae its 

will; 
She kent wool the Tailor could do her nae ill 

Tlie Tailor grew dioo^^y, and thought in a 

dream, 
How he caulked out the claith, and then felled 

in the seam ; 
A while ayont midnight, before the cocks craw, 
The Tailor fell thro' the bed thimbles an' a*. 

The day it has come, and the nicht it has gane, 
Said the bonnie young lassie when sighing 

alane : 
Since men are but scant, it wad gee me na^ 

pain, 
To see the bit Tailor come skippin again. 



AWA, WHIGS, AWA 



JACOBITE SONG. 

Tune — •' Awa, Whigs, awa !" 

Our thistles flourish'd fresh and fair, 

And bonny blooni'd our roses, 
But Whigs came, like a frost in June, 
And wither'd a' our posies. 
Awa, Whif/s, awa ! 

Awa, Whigs, awa ! 
Ye re but a pack o' traitor loons ; 
Ye'U ne'er do good at a'. 

Our sad decay in church and state 

Surpasses my descrlving ; 
The Whigs came o'er us for a curse, 

And we have done wi' thriving. 

Awa, Whigs ! awa, Sfc. 

A foreign \Vliiggish loon bought seeds, 

In Scottish yird to cover ; 
But we'll pu' a' his dibbled leeks. 

And pack him to Hanover. 

Awa, Whigs! awa, §"c. 

Our ancient crown's fa'n i' the dust, 
Deil blind them wi' the stour o't ! 

And write their names in his black beuk, 
Wha,ga'e the Whlg-s tlie power o't ! 
Awa, Whigs! awa, 8fc. 



Grim Vengeance lang has ta'eu a nap, 
But we may see him wauken : 

Gude help the day, when royal heads 
Are liunted like a maukin ! 

Awa, W/iigs ! awa, 8fC. 

The deil he heard the stour o' tongues, 
And ramping came amang us ; 

But he pitied us, sae cursed wi' Whigs,— 
He turn'd aud wadna wrang iis. 

Awa, Whigs ! awa, SfC 

Sae glim he sat amang the reek, 

Thrang bundling brimstone matches ; 
And croon'd, 'mang the beuk-taJcing Whigs, 
Scraps of auld Calvin's catches. 
Awa, Whigs, awa ! 

Awa, Whigs, awa ! 
Yell rin me out a' wun spunksj 
And ne^er do good at a. 



LOCH-NA-GARR. 



Away ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses. 
In you let the minions of luxury rove ; 
Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake re 

poses, 
If still they are sacred to freedom and love. 
Yet, Caledonia, dear are thy mountains. 
Round their white summits tho' elements war, 
Tho' cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth flowing 

fountains, 
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch-na-garr. 

Shades of the dead ! have I heard your voices 

Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gaJe, 

Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, 

And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland 
dale. 

Round Loch-na-garr, while the stormy mist ga- 
thers, 

Winter presides in his cold icy car ; 

Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers, 

They dwell 'mid the tempests of dark Loch. 
na-garr. 



THE MERRY IMEN, O. 

When I was red, and ripe, and crouse. 
Ripe and crouse, ripe and crouse. 

My father buUt a wee house, a wee house, 
To baud me frae the men, O. 

There came a lad and gae a shout, 
Gae a shout, gae a shout. 



185 



The wa's fell In, and I fell out, 
Amang the merry men, O. 

I dream sic sweet things in my sleep, 

In my sleep, in my sleep, 
My minny says I winna keep, 

Amang sae mony men, O. 
W hen plums are ripe, they should he j.oo'd, 

Should be poo'd, should be poo'd, 
Wlien maids are ripe, they should be vvoo'd 

At seven years and ten, O. 

My love, I cried it, at the port, 

At the port, at the port, 
The captain bade a guinea for't, 

The colonel he bade ten, O. 
The chaplain he bade siller for't. 

Siller for*t, siller for't, 
B*ut the sergeant bade me naething for't, 

Yet he cam farthest ben, O. 



KENMURE'S ON AND AWA, AVILLIE. 

Tune — " Kenmure's on and awa." 

O, Kenmure's on and awa, Willie, 

O, Kenmure's on and awa ; 
And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord 

That ever Galloway saw. 

Succes to Kenmure's band, Willie, 

Success to Keiuisure's band ! 
There's no a heart that fears a Whig, 

That rides by Kenmure's hand. 

Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie, 
Here's Kenmure's health in wine ! 

There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's blude, 
Nor yet o' Gordon's line. 

O, Kermure's lads are men, Willie, 

O, Kenmure's lads are men ! 
Their hearts and swords are metal true ; 

And that their taes shall ken. 

They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie, 

They'll live or die wi' fame ; 
But sune wi' sound and victoiie 

May Kenmure's lord come hame ! 

Here's him that's far awa, Willie, 

Here's liim that's far awa; 
And here's the flower that 1 lo'e best, 

The rose that's like the snaw. 



POLWART ON THE GREEN. 

At Polwart on the green, 
If you'll meet me the morn, 

Where lasses do convene 
To dance about the tViorn, 



A kindly welcome you shall meet 
Frae her wha likes to view 

A lover and a lad complete, 
The lad and lover you. 

Let dorty dames say Na, 

As lang as e'er they please, 
Seem caulder than the sua', 

While inwardly they bleeze ; 
But I will frankly shaw my mind. 

And yield my heart to thee ; 
Be ever to the captive kind, 

That langs na to be free. 

At Polwart on the green, 

Amang the uew-mawn hay, 
With sangs and dancing keen 

We'll pass the heartsome day. 
At nightv if beds be o'er thrang laid, 

And thou be twin'd of thine, 
Thou shalt be welcome, my dear ladf 

To take a part of mine. 



HAME NEVER CAME HE. 

Saddled, and bridled, and booted rode he, 
A plume in his helmet, a sword at his knee ; 
But toom cam' the saddle, all bluidy to see, 
And hame cam' the steed, but hame never cariQ 
he. 

Down cam' his gray father, sabbin' sae sair, 
Down cam' his auld mither, tearing her hair, 
Down cam' his sweet wile wi' bonnie bairns 

three, 
Ane at her bosom, and twa at her knee. 

There stood the fleet steed all foamin' and hot, 
There shriek'd his sweet wife, and sank on the 

spot, 
There stood his gray father, weeping sae free. 
So hame cam' his steed, but hame never cam 

he. 



THE BOB OF DUMBLANE. 

Lassie, lend me your braw hemp heckle. 

And I'll lend you my thripling kame; 
For fainness, deary, I'll gar ye keckle, 

If ye'U go dance the Bob of Dumbline. 
Haste ye, gang to the ground of your trunkies^ 

Busk ye braw, and dinna think shame ; 
Consider in time, if leading of monkies 

Be better than dancing the Bob of Dumblane. 

Be frank, my lassie, lest I grow fickle, 
And take my word and ofi"er again. 

Syne ye may chance to repent it mickle^ 
Ye did na accept the Bob of Dumblane. 



166 



BURNS' WORKS. 



rbe dinner, the piper, and priest shall be ready, 
And I'm grown dowy with lying my lane ; 

Away then, leave baith minny and dady, 
And try with me the Bob of Dumblaoe. 



LOCHABER NO MORE 

Tune — " Luciiaber no more." 

Farewell to Lochaber, and farewell my Jean, 
Where heartsome with thee I've niony day been ; 
For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, 
We'll may be return to Lochaber no more. 
These tears that I shed, they are a' for my dear, 
And no for the dangers attending on weir, 
Tho bore on rough seas to a far bloody shore, 
May be to return to Lochaber no more. 

Tho' hurricanes rise, and rise ev'ry wind, 
They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my 

mind. 
Tho* loudest of thunder on louder waves roar. 
That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. 
To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pain'd. 
By ease that's inglorious, no fame can be gain'd. 
And beauty and love's the reward of the brave, 
And I must deserve it before I can crave. 

Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse, 
Since honour commands me, how can I refuse? 
Without it 1 ne'er can have merit for thee, 
And without thy favour I'd better not be. 
I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame, 
And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, 
I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er. 
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more. 



JOCKY SAID TO JEANY. 

JocKT said to Jeany, Jeany, wilt thou do't ? 
Ne'er a fit, quo' Jeanv, for my tocher -good, 
For my tocher-good, I winna marry thee. 
E'ens ye like, quo' Jockey, ye may let it be. 

I hae gowd and gear, I hae land enough, 
I hae seven good owsen ganging in a pleugh, 
Ganging in a pleugh, and linking o'er the lee, 
And gin ye winna tak me, I can let ye be. 

I hae a good ha' house, a barn and a byre, 
A stack afore the door, I'll make a rantin fire, 
I'll make a rantin fire, a^id merry ^nall we be ! 
And gin ye winna tak me, I can let ye be. 

Jeany said to Jocky, Gin ye winna tell, 
Ye shall be the lad, I'll be the lass mysell. 
Ye' re a bonny lad, and I'm a lassie free, 
Ye're welcomer to tak me than to let me be. 



THE LOWLANDS OF HOI LAND 

ANOTHER VERSION 

The luve that I hae chosen 

I'll therewith be content ; 
The saut sea will be frozen 

Befare that I repent ; 
Repent it will I never 

Until the day I die. 
Though the Lowlands of Holland 

Hae twined my love and me. 

My luve lies in the saut sea, 

And I am on the side ; 
Enough to break a young thing's heart 

Wha lately was a bride — 
Wha lately was a happy bride 

And pleasure iii her ee ; 
But the Lowlands of Holland 

Hae twined my love aud me 

Oh ! Holland is a barren place, 

In it there grows nae grain, 
Nor ony habitation 

Wherein for to remain ; 
But the sugar canes are plenty, 

And the wine draps frae the tree ,, 
But the Lowlands of Holland 

Hae twined my love and me. 

My love he built a bonnie ship, 

And sent her to the sea, 
Wi' seven score guid mariners 

To bear her companie. 
Thiee score to the bottom gaed, 

Aud three score died at sea ; 
And the Lowlands of Holland 

Hae twined my love and me. 



JENNY DANG THE WEAVER 

Jenny lap, and Jenny flang, 

Jenny dang the weaver ; 
The piper played as Jenny sprang, 

An' aye she dang the weaver. 

As I cam in by Fisherrow, 

Musselburgh was near me, 
I threw aif the mussel-pock. 

And courtit wi' my deerie. 

Had Jenny's apron bidden down 
The kirk wad ne'er hae ken'd it j 

But now the word 's gane thro the towB} 
The devil canna mend it. 

Jenny lap, and Jenny flang, 

Jenny dang the weaver ; 
The piper played as Jenny sprang, 

And aye she dang the weaver. 



SONGS 



187 



4«5 I WENT OUT AE MAY MORNING. 

As I went oat ae May morning, 

Ae May morning it happened t) be, 

there I saw a very bonnie lass 
Come linkin' o'er the lea to me. 

And O she was a weel-faud lass. 

Sweet as the flower sae newly sprung ; 

1 said, fair maid, an* ye fancy, me, 

When she laughing said, I am too young. 

To be your bride I am too young, 

And far our proud to be your loon ; 
This is the merry month of May, 

But I'll be aulder, Sir, in June. 
The hawthorns flourished fresh and fair, 

And o'er our heads the small birds sing, 
And never a word the lassie said, 

But, gentle Sir, I am too young. 



the: wee, wee GERMAN LAIRDIE. 

Wha the deil hae we gotten for a king, 
But a wee, wee German lairdle ? 

And, when we gaed to bring him, 
He was delving in his yardie : 

Sheughing kail, and laying leeks, 

But the hose, and but the breeks ; 

And up his beggar duds he cleeks — 
This v/ee, wee German lairdie. 

And he's clapt down in our gudemau's chair, 

The wee, wee German lairdie ; 
And he's brought fouth o' foreign trash, 

And dibbled them in his yardie. 
He's pu'd the rose o' English loons, 
And broken the harp o' Irish clowns ; 
But our thistle taps will jag his thumbs — 

This wee, wee German lairdie. 

Come up amang our Highland hills, 

Thou wee, wee German lairdie. 
And see the Stuart's lang-kail thrive 

We dibbled in our yardie : 
And if a stock ye dare to pu', 
Or baud the yoking o' a plough, 
We'll break your sceptre o'er your mou'. 

Thou wee bit German lairdie. 

Our hills are steep, our glens are deep, 

Nae fitting for a yardie ; 
And our Norland thistles winna pu*, 

Thou wee bit German lairdie : 
And we've the trenching blades o* weir, 
Wad prune ye o' your German gear — 



We'll pass ye 'neath the claymore's shear. 
Thou feckless German lairdie ! 

Auld Scotland, thou'rt ower cauld a hole 

For nursin' siccan vermin ; 
But the very dougs o' England's court 

They birk and howl in German. 
Then keep thy dibble in thy ain hand, 

Thy spade but and thy yardie ; 
For wha the deil hae we gotten for a king, 

But a wee, wee German lairdie ? 



THE FORAY. 

SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

The last of our steers on t)he board has been 

spread. 
And the last flask of wine in our goblets is red : 
Up, up, my brave kinsmen ! — belt swords and 

begone ; 
There are dangers to dare, and there's spoil to 

won ! 

The eyes that so lately mixed glances with ours, 
For a space must be dim, as they gaze from the 

towers. 
And strive to distinguish, through tempest and 

gloom, 
The prance of the steeds and the top of the 

plume. 

The rain is descending, the wind rises loud, 
The moon her red beacon has veiled with a 

cloud — 
'Tis the better, my mates, for the warder's dull 

eye 
Shall in confidence slumber, nor dream we are 

nigh. 

Our steeds are impatient — I hear my blythe 
gi-ey; 

There is life in his hoof-clang and hope in his 
neigh ; 

Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his 
mane 

Shall marshal your march through the dark- 
ness and rain. 

The draw-bridge has dropped, and the bugle 

has blown ; 
One pledge is to quaff yet — then mount and 

begone : 
To their honour and peace that siiall rest with 

the slain ! 
To their health and their glee that see Teviot 

again ! 



188 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



ADIEU : A. HEART- WARM FOND ADIEU ! 

Tune—" The Peacock." 

Adieu ! a heart -warm fond adieu ! 

Dear brothers of the mystic tie ! 
Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few, 

Companions of my social joy ! 
Though I to foreign lands must hie, 

Pursuing Fortune's sliddry ba', 
With melting heart, and brimful eye, 

I'll mind you still, though far awa'. 

Oft have I met your social band, 

And spent the cheerful festive night ; 
Oft, honoured with supreme command, 

Presided o'er the sons of light ; 
And by that hieroglyphic bright. 

Which none but craftsmen ever saw- ! 
Strong memory on my heart shall write 

Those happy scenes when far awa i 

May freedom, harmony, and love, 

Unite you in the grand design, 
Beneath the Omniscient Eye above, 

The glorious architect divine ! 
That you lUa/ keep th' unerring line, 

Stili rising by the plummet's law, 
Till order bright completely shine — 

Shall be my prayer when far awa. 

And you, farewell I whose merits claim. 

Justly, that highest badge to wear ! 
Heaven bless your honour'd, noble name, 

To masonry and Scotia dear ! 
A last request permit me here, 

When yearly ye assemble a', 
One round, I ask it with a tear, 

To him, the bard, that's far awa.* 



AE FOND KISS. 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 

Ae farewell, alas, for ever ! 

Deep in heart- wrung tears I'll pledge thee. 

War in sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 



Who sh ill say that fortune grieves !iim, 
While the star of hope she leaves him? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame thy partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy; 
But to see her, was to love her ; 
Love but her, and love for ever. 
Had we never loved sae kindly. 
Had we never loved sae blindly ; 
Never met — or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare thee well, thou first and fairest ! 
Fare thee well, thou best and dearest ! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! 
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 
Ae farewell, alas, for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge the*, 
War in sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 



• Written as a sort of farewell lo the Masonic com- 
panions of his vovilh, when the poet was on the point 
of leaving Scotland loi Jamaica, 1786. 



AFTON WATER. 

Tune—" The Yellow-hair'd Laddie." 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy greeu 

braes, 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ; 
INIy Mary's asleep by thy murmuiing stream ; 
Flow gently, sweet Aftoii, disturb not her dream. 

Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds througl 
the glen, 

Ye wild-whistling blackbirds, in yon flowerj 
den, 

Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming for- 
bear, 

I charge you, disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, 
Far mark'd with the courses of clear-winding 

rills ; 
There daily I wander, as mora rises high. 
My flocks and ray Mary's sweet cot in ray eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; 
There oft, as mild evening creeps o'er the lea. 
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me 



SONGS 



189 



Thy crystal stream, Afton, now lovely it glides, 1 
I And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ! 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 
As, gath'ring sweet flow'rets, she stems thy 
clear wave ! 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 

braes ; 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream ; 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 



AGAIN REJOICING NATURE SEES. 
Tune — " Johnnie's Grey Breeks." 

Again rejoicing nature sees 

Her rol)e assume its vernal hues ; 

Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, 
All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 

In vain to me the cowslips blaw ; 

In vain to me the vi'lets spring ; 
In vain to me, in glen or shaw, 

The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 

The merry ploughboy cheers his team ; 

Wi' joy the tentie seedraan stauks ; 
But life to me*s a weary dream, 

A dream of ane that never wauks. 

The wanton coot the water skims ; 

Amang-the reeds the ducklings cry ; 
The stately swan majestic swims ; 

And every thing is blest but I. 

Tlie shepherd steeks his faulding slaps, 
And o'er the moorland whistles shrill ; 

Wi' wild, unequal, wandering step, 
I meet him on the dewy hill. 

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark. 

Blithe waukens by the daisy's side, 
And mounts and sings on fluttering wings, 

A woe-worn ghaist, I hameward glide. 
• 
Come, Winter, with thine angry howl. 

And raging bend the naked tree ; 
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, 

When nature all is sad like me ! 



A HIGHLAND LAD MY LOVE WAS 
BORN. 

THE " RAUCLE CARLINE's" SONG IN IME 
" JOLLY BEGGARS." 

Tune — •• O an ye war dead, guidman !" 

.\ Highland lad my love was born, 
The Lawland laws he held in scorn : 



But he still was faithful to his Cian, 
My gallant, braw John Highlandman ! 

Sing he;/, my braw John Highlandman ! 

Sing ho, wy braw John Highlandman I 

There's not a' lad in a the land. 

Was mutch for my braw John Highlandman f 

With his philaheg and tartan plaid. 
And gude claymore down by his side, 
The ladies' hearts he did trepan, 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 
Sing hey Sfc. 

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
And lived like lords and ladies gay ; 
For a Lawland face he feared none. 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 
Sing hey, 8fc. 

They banished him beyond the sea ; 
But, ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran. 
Embracing my braw John Highlandman, 
Sing hey, 8fc. 

But, och ! they catched him at the last, 
And bound him in a dungeon fast ; 
My curse upon them every one. 
They've hanged my braw John Highlandman ' 
Sing hey, ^c. 

And now, a widow, I must mourn 
Departed joys that ne'er return. 
No comfort but a hearty can. 
When I think on John Highlandiran. 
Sing hey, §-c. 



AMANG THE TREES WHERE HUM 
MING BEES. 

Tune—" The King of France, he rade » Raofe* 

Amang the trees where humming b&?8 

At buds and flowers were hinging, O j 
Auld Caledon drew out her drone, 

And to her pipe was singing, O ; 
'Twas Pibroch, sang, strathspey, or rcelf 

She dirl'd them afi^, fu' clearly, O ; 
When there cam a yell o' foreign sque^» 

That dang her tapsalteerie, O — 

Their capon ciaws and queer ha ha's, 

. They made our lugs grow eerie, O 

The hungry bike did scrape and pike 

'Till we were wae and weary, O— - 
But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas'd 

A prisoner aughteen year awa, 
He fir'd a fiddler in the North 

That dang them tapsalteerie, O. 



190 



BURNS' WORKS. 



A IMAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT. 
Tune—" For a' tliat, and a' that. 

Is there, for honest poverty, 

That hangs his head, and a' that ? 
The coward-slave, we pass him by ; 

We daur be puir for a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Our toils obscure, and a* that, 
The rank is but the gainea-stamp — 

The man's the gowd for a' that. 

What though en hamely fare we dine, 

Wear hoddin-grey, and a' that ? 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine ; 

A man's a man for a' that ; 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show, and a' that, 
The honest man, though e'er sae puir, 

Is king- o' men for a* that. 



Ve see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,^ 

Wha struts, and stares, and a* that ; 
Though hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but a cuif for a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 

His riI)bon, star, and a' that, 
The man of independent mind, 

lie looks and laughs at a' that. 

A king can make a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 
But an honest man's aboon his micht, 

Gude fiiith, he maunna fa' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their dignities, and a' that, 
The pith o* sense, the pride o' worth, 

Are higher ranks for a' that. 

Thpn let us pray, that come it may, 

As come it will, for a' that, 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 

3 lay bear the gree, and a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 

It's coniin' yet for a' that, 
That man to ir.an, the warld o'er. 

Shall brothe's be for a' that. 



ANNA. 



Tunt'—** Banks of Banna." 

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, 

A place where body saw na ; 
Yestreen lay on this hieast o' mine 

The raven h^cks of Anna. 
The hungry Jew in wilderness. 

Rejoicing ower his manna. 
Was naething to my hinny bliss. 

Upon the lips of Anna. 

Ye r:onarchs tak the east and west. 
Frae Indus to Savannah \ 



Gie me within my straining grasp 
The melting form of Anna. 

There I'll despise imperial charms. 
An empress or sultana. 

While dying raptures, in her arms 
I give and take with Anaa. 

Awa, thou flaunting god of day ! 

Awa, thou pale Diana ! 
Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray 

When I'm to meet my Anna. 
Come, in thy raven plumage, night, 

Sun, moon, and stars, withdrawn a* 
And bring au angel pen to write 

My transports with my Anna.* 



ANNIE. 

Tuttt—" Allan Water." 

I WALKED out with the Museum in my hand, 
and turning up Allan Water, the words appeared 
to me rather unworthy of so fine an air, so I sat 
and raved under the shade of an old thorn till I 
wrote one to suit the measure. 

By Allan stream I chanced to rove, 

While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi, 
The winds were whisp'ring through the grove, 

The yellow corn was waving ready : 
I listen'd to a lover's sang. 

And thought ou jnutliful pleasures many; 
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang — 

O, dearly do I love thee, Annie ! 

O, happy be the woodbine bower ; 

Nae nightly bogle mak it eerie ; 
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, 

The place and time I meet my dearie ! 
Her head upon my throbbing breast, 

She, sinking, said, I'm thine for ever ! 
While many a kiss the seal impress'd. 

The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever. 

The haunt o' Spring's the primrose br^e ; 

The Simmer joys the flocks to follow; 
How cheerie, through her short'ning day, 

Is Autumn in her weeds o; yellow ! 
But can they melt the glowing heart, 

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure, 
Or through each nerve the rapture dart. 

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure ? 



* This song, like " Highland Mary," affords a strong 
proof of the power which poetry possesses of raising 
and subliming objects. Highland Mary was the dairy, 
maid of Coilstield ; Anna is said to have been some* 
thing meaner. The poet sure was in a fine phrenzy- 
rolling when he said, " I think this is the best love- 
flong I ever wrote." 



SONGS. 



191 



A RED RED ROSE. 
Tune — " Low down in the Brume." 

O, MY luve's like a red red rese. 
That's newly sprung in June ; 

O, my luve's like the melodic. 
That's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

Sae deep in luve am I ; 
And I will love thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun ; 
will love thee still, my dear, 
While the sands o' life shall run. 

4nd fare thee weel, my only luve, 
And fare thee weel a while ! 

And I will come again, my luve, 
Though it were ten thousand mile. 



A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. 

This song I composed on Miss Jenny Cruik- 
shank, only child to my worthy friend Mr. 
William Cruikshank of the High-School, Edin- 
burgh. The air is by David Sillar, quondam 
merchant, now schoolmaster, in Irvine : the 
Davie to whom I address my poetical epistle. 

A ROSE-BUD by my early walk, 
Adown a corn-inclosed bawk, 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, 
All on a dewy morning. 

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, 
In a' its crimson glory spread, 
And drooping rich the dewy head, 
It scents the early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest 
A little linnet fondly prest. 
The dew sat chilly on her breast 
Sae early in the morning. 

She soon shall see her tender brood. 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedewed, 
Awake the early morning. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair. 
On trembling string or vocal air. 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 
That tents thy early morning. 

So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, 
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day. 
And bless the parent's evening ray 
That watched thy early morning. 



A SOUTHLAND JENNY. 

This is a popular Ayrshire song, though the 
notes were never taken down before. — It, as 
well as many of the ballad tunes in this co.les- 
tion, was written from Mrs. Burns's voice. 

A Southland Jenny that was right bonny. 
Had for a suitor a Norland Johnnie, 
But he was sicken a bashfu' wooer. 
That he could scarcely speak unto her. 

But blinks o' her beauty, and hopes o' her siller, 
Forced him at last to tell his mind till her ; 
My dear, quo' he, we'll nae langer tarry, 
Gin ye can lo'e me, let's o'er the moor and marry 

Come awa then, my Norland laddie, 
Tho' we gang neat, some are mair gaudy ; 
Albeit I hae neither land nor money, 
Come, and I'll ware my beauty on thee. 

Ye lasses o' the South, ye're a' for dressin ; 
Lasses o' the North, mind milkin and threshin ; 
My minnie wad be angry, and sae wad my 

daddie, 
Should 1 marry ane as dink as a lady. 

I maun hae a wife that will rise i' the mornin, 
Cruddle a' the milk, and keep the house a 

scauldin ; 
Tulzie wi' her neebors, and learn at my minnie, 
A Norland Jocky maun hae a Norland Jenny. 

My father's only dochter, wi' farms and si..„ 

ready. 
Wad be ill bestowed upon sic a clownish body ; 
A' that I said was to try what was in thee, 
Gae hanie, ye Norland Jockie, and court you.' 

Norland Jenny ! 



AULD LANG SYNE. 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 

And never brought to mind ? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And auld lang syne ! 

For auld lang syne, my jo. 

For auld lav^ cyne. 
Well tak a cvp o' kindness yet, 
For avid lang syne ! 

And surely ye'll be your pint stoup ! 

And surely I'll be mine ! 
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 
For auld, ^c. 

We twa hae run about the braes, 
And pou't the gowans fine ; 

But we've wander 'd mony a weary foot 
Sin auld lang syne. 
For auld, ^^c. 



192 



BURNS' WORKS. 



We twa hae paidl't i' the biwn, 

Frae inorning sua 'till dine ; 
But seas between us braid hae roai'M, 

Sin auld king syne. 
For auld, ^c. 

And there's a han', my trusty fiere, 

And gies a han' o' thine ! 
And we'll tak a right gude willy-vvaught 

For auld lang syne ! 
For auld, §*c. 



AULD ROB MORRIS. 

There's auld Rob Morris, that wins in yon 

glen, 
He's the king o' gude fellows, and wale of auld 

men ; 
He has gowd in his coffers ; he has ousen and 

kine, 
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 

She's fresh in the morning, the fairest in May ; 
She's sweet as the evening among the new hay ; 
As blythe, and as artless, as the lamb on the 

lea ; 
And dear to my heart as the light to my ee. 

But oh ! she's an heiress : auld Robin's a laird, 
And my daddie has nought but a cothouse and 

yard. 
A wooer like me manna hope to come speed. 
The wounds I must hide that will soon be ray 

dead. 

The day comes to me, but delight brings me 

nane ; 
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane ; 
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, 
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my 

breast ! 

Oh had she but been of a lower degree, 

I then might hae hop'a she wad smil'd upon 

me ; 
O how past deserving had then been my bless, 
As now my distraction, no words can express. 



Blest wi' content, and milk, and meal— > 
O leeze me on my spinning-wheel ! 

On ilka hand the burnies trot, 
And meet below my theekit cot ; 
The scented birk and hawthorn white 
Across the pool their arms unite, 
Alike to screen the birdie's nest, 
And little fishes' caller rest ; 
The sun blinks kindly in the blel, 
Where blythe I turn my spinning-wheel 

O'n lofty aiks the cushats wail. 
And echo cons the doolfu' tale ; 
The lintwhites in the hazel braes. 
Delighted, rival ither's lays : 
The craik amang the clover hay, 
The paitrick whirring ower ihe lea, 
The svvallow jinkin' round my shiel 
Amuse me at my spinning-wheel. 

Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, 
Aboon distress, below envy, 
O wha Avad leave this humble state, 
Fc.r a' the pride of a' the great ? 
Amid their flaring idle toys, 
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys 
Can they the peace and pleasure feel 
Of Bessy at her spinning-wheel ? 



I BESSY AND HER SPINNING WHEEL. 

Tune — " The oottovn of the Punch Bowl." 

LEKZK mo on my spinning-wheel ! 
O leeze me on my rock and reel ! 
Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien, 
And hups me feil * and warm at e'en ! 
I'll set me doun, and sing, and spin. 
While laigh descends the simmer sun ; 



« Covers me with a stuff' agree? •>!' to ine smn. 



• BEWARE O' BONNIE ANJV 

I COMPOSED this song out of conipl.»rient to 
Miss Ann Masterton, the daughter of my friend, 
AUan IMasterton, the author of the air of Strath' 
allans Lament, and two or three others in this 
work. 

Ye gallants bright I red ye right, 

Beware o' bonnie Ann ; 
Her comely face sae fu' o' grace, 

Your heart she will trepan. 
Her eeu sae bright, like stars by night, 

Her skin is like the swan ; 
Sae jimply lac'd her genty waist, 

That sweetly ye might span. 

Youth, grace, and love, attendant mov •, 

And pleasure leads the van : 
In a' their charms, and conquering firms, 

iney wait on bonnie Ann. 
The captive bands may chain the hands. 

But love enslaves the man ; 
Ye gallants braw, I red you a'. 

Beware o' bonnie Ann. 



SONGS 



193 



BEHOJ.D THE HOUR, 
ARRIVE. 



THE BOAT 



Tune—'" Oran Gaoil." 

Behold the hour, the boat arrive ; 

Thou goest, thou darling of my heart \ 
Sever'd from thee, can I survive ? 

But fate has will'd, and we must part. 
I'll often greet this surging swell, 

Yon distant isle will often hail : 
" E'en here I took my last farewell, 

There latest mark'd her vanish'd sail." 

Along the solitary shore, 

While flitting sea-fowl round me cry, 
Across the rolling, dashing roar, 

I'll westward turn my wistful eye : 
Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say, 

Where now my Nancy s path may be ! 
While through thy sweets she loves to stray. 

Oh, tell me, does she muse on me ? 



BEYOND THEE, DEARIE. 

It is remarkable of this air, that it is the con- 
fine of that country where the greatest part of 
our Lowland music, (so far as from the title, 
words, &c. we can localize it), has been com- 
posed. From Craigie-burn, near MoiFat, until 
one reaches the West Highlands, we have scarce- 
ly one slow air of any antiquity. 

The song was composed on a passion which 
a ]Mr. Gillespie, a particular friend of mine, had 
for a Miss Lorimer, afterwards a Mrs. Whelp- 
d;de. — The young lady was born at Craigie- 
burn wood The chorus is part of an old jfool- 

isu ballad. — 

Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, 

And O to be lying beyond thee, 
sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep. 

That's laid in the bed beyond thee. 



CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD. 

Sweet closes the evening on Craigie-burn wood, 

And blythely awakfens the morrow ; 
But the pride of the spring in the Craigie-burn 
Wood, 
Can yield me to nothing but sorrow. 
Beyond thee, Sfc. 

I see the spreading leaves and flowers, 

I hear the wild birds singing ; 
But pleasure they hae nane for me. 

While care my heart is wringing 
Beyond thee, Sfc. 

canna tell, I maun na tell, 
I diire na for your anger j 



But secret love will break my heart* 
If I conceal it langer. 

Beyond, thee, §"c. 

I see thee gracefu', straight and talL 
I see thee sweet and bonnie, 

But oh, what will my torments be, 
If thou refuse thy Johnie ! 
Beyond thee, 8fC. 

To see thee in anither*s arms. 
In love to lie and languish, 

*Twad be my dead, that will be seeOi 

My heart wad burst wi' anguish. 

Beyond thee, ^c. 

But Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine, 
Say, thou lo'es nane before me ; 

And a' my days o' life to come, 
I'll gratefully adore thee. 
Beyond thee, Sfc. 



BLYTHE HAE I BEEN ON YOr HTLlt 
Tune—" Liggeram cosh." 

Blythe hae I been on yon hill, 

As the lambs before me ; 
Careless ilka thought and free, 

As the breeze flew o'er me : 
Now nae langer sport and play, 

Mirth or sang can please me : 
Lesley is sae fair and coy, 

Care and anguish seize me. 

Heavy, heavy is the task, 

Hopeless love declaring : 
Trembling, I dow nocht but glowT, 

Sighing, dumb, despairing! 
If she winua ease the thraws, 

In my bosom swelling ; 
Underneath the grass-green sod, 

Soon maun be my dwelling. 



BLYTHE WAS SHE. 

Blythe, blythe and merry was she^ 
Blythe icas she but and ben ,- 

Blythe by the banks of Em, 
And blythe iji Glenturit glen. 

By Oughtertyre grows the aik, 

On Yarrow banks, the blrken shawj 

But Pheinie was a bonnnier lass 
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. 

Blythe. 8fc. 

Her looks -were like a flow'r in May, 
Her smile was like a simmer morn ; 



She tripped by tlie banks of Era, 
As light's a bird upon a thorn. 
Blythe, §-c. 

Her bonny face it was as meek 
- As ony lamb upon a lee ; 
The evening ?'ni was ne'er sae 
As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e. 
Blythe, ^c. 

The Highland hill's I've wander'd wide, 
And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ; 

But Phemie was the blythest lass 
That ever trod the dewy green. 
Blvtha, S^c. 



BURNS WORKS. 



BONNIE WEE THING 
Tune—" Bonnie Wee Thing." 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing; 

Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, 
I wad wear thee in my bosom, 

Lest my jewel I should tine 

Wistfully I look and languish 
In that bonnie face o* thine ; 

And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, 
Lest'my wee thing be na mme. 

WiA, and grace, and love, and beauty, 

In ae constellation shine ; 
To adore thee is my duty. 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing. 
Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, 

I wad wear thee in my bosom, 
Lest my jewel I should tine. 



BONNIE LESLEY. 



BONNIE BELL. 

Thk smiling Spring comes in rejoicing, 

And surly Winter grimly flies ; 
Now crystal clear are the falling waters, 

And bonnie blue are the sunny skies ; 
Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the mor- 
ning. 

The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell ; 
All creatures joy in the sun's returning, 

And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell. 

The flow'ry Spring leads sunny Summer, 

And yellow Autumn presses near, 
Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter, 

•Till smiling Spring again appear. 
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing, 

Old Time and Nature their changes tell, 
But never ranging, still unchanging 

\ adore my bonnie Bell. 



Tune—*' The Collier's bonnie Lassie. 

O, SAW ye bonnie Lesley, 

As she gaed o'er the Border ? 
She's gane, like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests farthei. 
To see her is to love her. 

And love but her for ever ; 
For nature made her what she 18, 

And never made anither ' 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 

Thy sul)jects we before thee *. 
Thou art divine, fair Lesley ; 

The hearts o' men adore thee. 
The Deil he couldna scaith thee. 

Or aught that wad belang thee ; 
He'd look into thy bonnie face. 

And say, I canna wrang thee ! 

The Powers aboon will tent thee, 

Misfortune shanna steer thee ; 
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, 

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee 
Return again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonie ! 
That we may brag we hae a lass 

There's nane again sae bonnie.* 



BONNIE JEAN. 
rune—" Bonnie Jean.** 

There was a lass, and she was fair, 
At kirk and market to be seen ; 

When a' the fairest maids were met. 
The fairest maid, was bonnie Jean. 

And aye she wrought her mammie's wark, 
And aye she sang sae merrllie ; 

The blythest bird updti the bush 
Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 

But hawks will rob the tender joys 
That bless the little lintwhite's nest ; 

And frost will blight the fairest flowers. 
And love will break the soundest rest. 

Young Robie was the brawest lad, 
The flower and pride of a' the glen ; 

And he had owsen, sheep, and kye. 
And wanton naigies nine or ten. 

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste. 
He danced wi' Jeanie on the down ; 

And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, 

Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. 



* Written in honour of Miss Lesley Bai lie of Avr 

shire, (now Mrs Cuni!nin<! of Logie), when on he» 
way to England, nrough Dumfries. 



SONGS. 195 


A* in the bosom o' the stream 

The moonbeam dwells at dewy e'en. 

So trembling, pure, was tender love, 
Within the breast o* bonnie Jean. 


Wlia, for Scotland's king and law. 
Freedom s sword will strongly draw, 
Freeman stand, or freeman fa', 
Let him follow me ! 


And now she works her mammie's w^ark, 
And aye she sighs wi' grief and pain j 

Yet wistna what her ail might be, 
Or what wad make her weel again. 


By oppression's woes and pains, 
By your sons in servile chains, 
We will drain our dearest vein% 
But they shall be free. 


But didna Jeanie's heart loup light, 
And didna joy blink in her ee, 

As Robie tauld a tale o' love, 
Ae e'ening, on the lily lea? 


Lay the proud usurpers low, 
Tyrants fall in every foe. 
Liberty's in every blow, 
Let us do, or die ! 


The sun was sinking in the west, 
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; 

His cheek to hers he fondly prest. 
And whisper'd thus his tale of love : 




CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWJES 


O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear ; 

canst thou think to fancy me ? 
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, 

And learn to tent the farms wi' me ? 


Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 
Ca' them where the heather grows, 
Ca' them where the burnie rowes. 
My bonnie dearie. 


At barn nor byre thou shalt na drudge, 
Or naething else to trouble thee ; 

But stray amang the heather-bells, 
And tent the waving corn wi* me. 


Hark, the mavis' evening sang. 
Sounding Cluden's woods amanjj; 
Then a-faulding let us gang, 
My bonnie dearie. 


Now what could artless Jeanie do ? 

She had nae will to say him na : 
\t length she blush'd a sweet consent, 

And love was aye between them twa. 


We'll gang doun by Cluden side. 
Through the hazels spreading wide 
O'er the waves that sweetly glide, 
My bonnie dearie. 




Yonder Cluden's silent towers. 
Where, at moonshine midnight hours. 
O'er the dewy budding flowers 

The dairies dance sae cheerie. 


HEY TUTTIE TAITTIE. 


I have met the tradition universally over 
Scotland, and particularly about Stirling, in 
the neighbourhood of the scene, that this air 
was Robert Bruce's march at the Battle of Ban- 
nockburn. 

BRUCE'S ADDRESS 

TO HIS TROOPS BEFORE THE BATTLE OF 
BANNOCKBURN. 


Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; 
Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear, 
Nocht of ill may come thee near, 
My '.pnnie dearie. 

Fair and lovely as thou art. 
Thou hast stoun my very heart ; 
I can die — but canna part, 
My bonnie dearie. 


Tune—" Hey tu'ttie taittie." 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled ! 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ! 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to victorle ! 




CANST THOU LEAVE ME* THUS, M\ 
KATY? 

Tune—" Roy's wife." 


Now's the day, and now's the hour : 
See the front of battle lour : 
See approach proud Edward's power — 
Chains and slaverie ! 


Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Xaty ? 
Well thou knowest my aching heart. 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity ? 


Wha will be a traitor knave? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave'' 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 
Let him turn and flee ' 


Is this thy plighted fond r»gard. 
Thus cruelly to part, my Katy? 

Is this thy faithful suain's reward — 
An aching, broken heart, my Katy? 



19G 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Fa^e^yell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear 
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy ! 

Thou may'st find those will love thee dear- 
But not a love like mine, my Katy. 



REPL\ TO THE ABOVE 

BY A YOUNG ENGLISH GENTLEWOMAN. FOUND 
AMONGST BURNS'S MANUSCRIPTS AFTER HIS 
DECEASE. 

Stay, ray Willie — yet believe me, 
Stay, my Willie — yet believe me ; 
'Tweel, thou know'st na every panj^ 
Wad wring my bosom shouldst thou leave me. 

Tell me that thou yet art true. 

And a' my wrongs shall be forgiven ; 

And when this heart proves false to thee, 
Yon sun shall cease its course in heaven. 

But to think I was betray d, 

That falsehood e'er our loves should sunder ! 
To take the floweret to my breast, 

And find the guilefu' serpent under ! 

Couid r hope thou'dst ne'er deceive me, 
' Celestial pleasures, might 1* choose 'em, 
I'd slight, nor seek in other spheres 

That heaven I'd find within thy bosom. 



He wanders as free as the wind on his mountaias, 
Save love's willing fetters — the chaius of hit 
Jean.* 



CALEDONIA. 

Their groves O sweet myrtles let foreign lands 
reckon. 
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the per- 
fume ; 
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan. 
With the burn stealing under the lang yellow 
broom. 

Far dearer to me yon humble broom bowers, 
Where the blue bell and gowan lurk lowly 
unseen ; 

For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, 
A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 

Though rich is the breeze, in their gay sunny 
vallies, 
And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; 
Their sweet-scented woodlands, that skirt the 
proud palace. 
What are they ? — the haunt o' the tyrant and 
slave ! 

The slave's spicy forests and gold-bubblii)g 
fountains, 
The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; 



CHLOE. 

altered from an OLD ENGLISH SOMtt 

It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flowers were fresh and gay, 
One morning by the break of day. 
The youthful, charming Chloe ; 

From peaceful slumber she arose, 
Girt on her mantle and her hose, 
And o'er the flowery mead she goes, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 
Lovely was she by the dawn, 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 
Tripping o'er the pearly lawn. 
The youthful, charming Chloe, 

The feather'd people you might see 
Perch'd all around on every tree. 



* Burns wrote this song in compliment to Mrs. Burns 
during their honeymoon. The air, with many others 
of equal beauty, was the composition of a Mr. Mar- 
shall, who, in Burns's time, v/as butler to the Duke 
of Gordon. 

This beautiful song — beautiful for both its amatory 
and its patriotic sentiment — seems to have bee'i com- 
posed by Bums during the period when he was court- 
ing the lady who afterwards became his wife. The 
present generation is much interested in this laciv, and 
deservedly; as, in addition to her poetical history, 
which is an extremely interesting one, she is a pers(m- 
age of the greatest private worth, and in every respect 
deserving to be esteemed as the widow of Scotland's 
best and most endeared bard. The following anecdote 
will perhaps be held as testifying, in no incoiisidt'ra'lc 
degree, to a quality which she may not hitiierto ha\e 
been sui)pr,sed to possess — her wit. 

It is generally known, that Mrs. Burns has, ever since 
her husband's death, occupied exactly the same house 
in Dumfries, which she inhabited before that event, 
and that it is customary for strangers, who happen to 
pass through or visit the town, to pay their respects to 
her, with or without letters of introduction, precisely 
as they do to the churchyard, the bridge, the harbour, 
or any other public object of curiosity about tiie place. 
A gay young English gentleman one day visited Mrs 
Burns, and after he had seen all that she had to show 
— the bedroom in which the poet died, his original por- 
trait by Nasmyth, his family-bible, with the names and 
birth-days of himself, his wife, and children, vvritten on 
a blank-leaf by his own hand, and some other little 
trifles of the same nature— he proceeded to intreat that 
she would have the kindness to present him with some 
relic of the poet, which he might carry away with him, 
as a wonder, to show in his own country. " Indeed, 
Sir," said Mrs. Burns, " I have given away so many re- 
lics of Mr. Burns, that, to tell ye the truth, I have not 
one left" — " Oh, you must surely have something," 
said the persevering Saxon ; " any thing will do— any 
little scrap of his liandwriting — the least thing you 
please. All I want is Just a relic of the poet; and any 
thing, you know, will do for a relic." Some further 
altercation took place, the lady reasserting that she had 
no relic to give, and he as repeatedly renewmg his le 
quest. At length, fairly tired out with the man's in-. 
j)ortunities, Mrs. Burns said to him, with a smilo, 
" 'Deed, Sir, unless ye tak mysell, then, 1 dinna st-e 
how you are to get what you want ; for, really, Fm the 
only relic o' him that 1 ken o'." The petiuouerat once 
I withdrew his request- 



SONGS. 197 


fn ». jtes of sweetest melody 


She, the fair sun of all her sex> 


TKey hail the cliarming Cbloe ; 


Has blest my glorious day : ' 




And shall a glimmering planet fix i 


Till, painting gay the eastern skies, 


My worship to its ray ? ! 


The glorious sun began to rise, 




Outrivall'd by the radiant eyes 




Of youthful, charming Chloe. 




Lovely was she, !fc. 






CONTENTIT WI* LITTLE. 
Tunt—*' Lumps o' Puddin." 




CHLORIS. 


CoifTENTiT wi' little, and cantie wi* mair, 


Thine—" My Lodging is on the Cold Ground." 


Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, 
I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin* alang, 


My Chloris, mark how green the groves, 


Wi' a cogue o' gude swats and an auld Scottisk i 


The primrose banks how fair ; 


sang. 


' The balmy gales awake the flowers. 




And wave thy flaxen hair. 


I whiles claw the elbow o' troublesome thocht ; 




But man is a sodger, and life is a faucht : 


The lav'rock shuns the palace gay, 


My mirth and gude humour are coin in my pouch, 


And o'er the cottage sings ; 


And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch 


For nature smiles as sweet, I ween, 


daur touch. 


To shepherds as to kings. 


J 




A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa , 


Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string 


A nicht o' gude fellowship sowthers it a* : ' 


In lordly lechtit ha' ; 


When at the blythe end o' our journey at last, i 


The shepherd stops his simple reed, 


Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past ? i 


Blythe, in the birken shaw. 






Blind chance, let her snapper and stoite on her 


The princely revel may survey 


^ , ""'^y.' , . 


Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; 


Be t to me, be t frae me, e en let the jaud gae ; i 


But are their hearts as light as ours, 


Come ease or come travail, come pleasure or pain^ 


Beneath the milk-white thorn ? 


My warst word is — Welcome, and welcome, a- i 


The shepherd, in the flow'ry glen. 


gam . 


In shepherd's phrase will woo; 




The courtier tells a fairer tale. 


i 


But is his heart as true ? 






COME, LET ME TAKE THEE TO MY 


These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 


BREAST. 


That spotless breast of thine ; 




The courtier's gems may witness love, 


Tune-" Cauld Kail in Aberdeen." 


But 'tis na love like mine. 






Come, let me take thee to my breast, 




And pledge we ne'er shall sunder ; 
And I shall spurn, as vilest dust. 






The waild's wealth and grandeur : 


CLARINDA.* 


And do I hear my Jeanie own, 




That equal transports move her ? 


Clarinda, mistress of my soul, 


I ask for dearest life alone 


The measur'd time is run ! 


That I may live to love her. 


The wretch beneath the dreary pole, 


So marks his latest sun. 


Thus in my arms, wi' a' thy charmt. 




I clasp my countless treasure ; 
I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to shares 


To what daik cave of frozen night 


Shall poor Sylvander hie ; 


Than sic a moment's pleasure : 
And, by thy een sae bonnie blue, 


Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, 


The sun of all his joy. 


I swear I'm thine for ever ! 


We part, — but by these precious drops. 


And on thy lips I seal my vow. 
And break it shall I never. 


That fill thy lovely eyes ! 




No other light shall guide my steps. 


1 


Till thy bright beams arise. 


1 


« Th widow alluded to in the Life 

( 

1 — 



198 



BURNS' WORKS. 



COUNTRY LASSIE. 

In simmer when the hay was mawn, 

And corn wav'd green in ilka field, 
While claver blooms white o'er the lea, 

And roses blaw in ilka bield ; 
Blythe Bessie in the milking shiel, 

Says, I'll be wed come o't what will ; 
Out spake a dame in wrinkled eild, 

O' gude advisement comes nae ill. 

Its ye hae wooers mony a ane, 

And, lassie, ye' re but young, ye k^n ; 
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale, 

A routhie butt, a routhie ben : 
There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre ; 
Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen, 

It's plenty beets the luver's fire. 

For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

I dinna care a single flie; 
He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye, 

He has nae luve to spare for me : 
But blythe's the blink o' Robie's e'e, 

And weel I wat he lo'es me dear : 
Ae blink o' him I wad na gie 

For Buskie-glen and a' his gear. 

O thoughtless lassie, life's a faught, 

The canniest gate, the strife is sair ; 
But aye fu' han't is fechtin' best, 

A hungry care's an unco care : 
But some will spend, and some will spare. 

And wilfu' folk maun hae their will ; 
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, 

Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill. 

O gear will buy me rigs o' land, 

And gear will buy me sheep and kye ; 
But the tender heart o' leesome luve. 

The gowd and siller canna buy : 
We may be poor, Robie and I, 

Light is the burden luve lays on ; 
Content and love brings peace and joy. 

What mair hae queens upon a throne ? 



equal to their wit and humotir, they would 
merit a place in any coll tction. — The first stanaa 
is. 

Being pursued by a dragoon. 
Within my bed he was laid down ; 
And well I wat he was worth his room, 
For he was my daintie Davie. 



DAINTIE DAVIE. 

This song, tradition says, and the composi- 
tion itself confirms it, was composed on the Rev. 
David Williamson's getting the daughter of 
Lady Cherrytrees with child, while a party of 
dragoons were searching her house to apprehend 
him for being an adherent to the solemn league 
and covenant. — The pious woman had put a 
lady's nij)ht-cap on him, and had laid him a-bed 
«ith her own daughter, and passed him to the 
soldiery as a lady, her daughter's bed-fellow. 
— A mutilated stanza or two are to be found in 
Herd't, collection, but the original song consists 
of [ivf or six stanzas, and were their delicacy 



DAINTY DAVIE. 

Tune — " Dainty Davie." 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, < 
To deck her gay green birken bowers, 
And now come in my happy hours, 
To wander wi' my Davie. 

Meet me on the zvarlock knowe, 

Dai7ity Davie, dainty Davie ; 
There III spend the day wi^ you, 
My ain dear dainty Davie. 

The crystal waters round us fa', 
The merry birds are lovers a', 
The scented breezes r(jund us blaw, 
A-wandering wi' my Davie. 
Meet me on, S^c, 

Wlien purple morning starts the hare, 
To steal upon her early fare. 
Then through the dews I will repair. 
To meet my faithfu' Davie. 
Meet me on, 8fc. 

When day, expiring in the west. 
The curtain draws o' Nature's rest, 
I'll flee to his arms I lo'e best. 
And that's my Jainty Davie. 
Meet me on, ^'c. 



DELUDED SWAIN, THE PLEASURE 
TunC'—" The Collier's Bonnie Lassie." 

Deluded swain, the pleasure 

The fickle fair can give thee 
Is but a fairy treasure — 

Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. 

The billows on the ocean. 

The breezes idly roaming, 
The clouds' uncertain motion, 

They are but types of woman. 

O ! art thou not ashamed 

To doat upon a feature ? 
If man thou wouldst be named. 

Despise the silly creature. 

Go, find an honest fellow ; 

Good claret set before thee; 
Hold on till thou art mellow ; 

And then to bed in glory. 



SONGS. 



199 



DOES H4iUGHTY GAUL. 

Thine— '^ Push about tfc.e Jorum." 
April, 1795. 

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ? 

Then let the loons beware, Sir, 
There's wooden walls upon our seas, 

And volunteers on shore, Sir. 
The N'th shall run to Corsincon,* 

And Criffel sink in Sohvay,f 
Ere we permit a foreign foe 

On British ground to rally ! 
Fall de rail, 8fc. 

O let us not, like snarling tykes, 

In wrangling be divided ; 
'Till slap come in an unco loon 

And wi' a rung decide it. 
Be Britain still to Britain true, 

Amang oursels united ; 
For never but by British hands 

Maun British wrangs be righted. 
Fall de rail, §-o. 

The kettle o' the kirk and state, 

Perhaps a clout may fail in't ; 
But dell a foreign tinkler loon 

Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 
Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought, 

And wha wad dare to spoil it ; 
By heaven the sacrilegious dog 

Shall fuel be to boil it. 

Fall de rail, 8fc. 

The wretch that wad a tyrant own, 

And the wretch his true-born brother, 
Who would set the mob aboon the throne, 

May they be damned together ! 
Who will not sing " God save the king," 

Shall hang as high's the steeple ; 
But, while we sing " God save the king,' 

We'll ne'er forget the people. 
Fall de rail, §-c. 



DUxYCAN GRAY. 



DOWN THE BURN DAVIE. 

VERSE ADDED BY BURNS TO THE OLD SONG. 

As down the burn they took their way. 

And through the flowery dale, 
His cheek to hers he aft did lay, 

And love was aye the tale 
With — Mary when shall we return, 

Such pleasure to renew ? 
Quoth Mary, love, I like the burn, 

And aye will follow you. 



A high hill at the source of the Nith. 

A well-known mountain at the mouth of the iiame 



Dr. Blacklock informed me that he ha« 
often heard the tradition that this air was coiH' 
posed by a carman in Glasgow. 

Duncan Grav cam here to woo. 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
On blythe yule night when we were fou. 

Ha, ha, the wooing o^t. 
Maggie coost her Head fu' high, 
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh ; 
Gait poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Duncan fleech'd and Duncan pray d i 

Ha, ha, 8fc. 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, * 

Ha, ha, 8fc 
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
Grat his e'en baith bleert and blin, 
Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn ; 

Ha, ha, Sfc. 

Time and chance are but a tide, 

Ha, ha, 8j-c. 
Slighted love is sair to bide. 

Ha, ha, 8fc. 
Shall I, like a fool, quo' he. 
For a haughty hizzie die ; 
She may gae to — France for me ! 

Ha, ha, Sj-c. 

How it comes let doctors tell. 

Ha, ha, ^c. 
Meg grew sick~as he grew heal, 

Ha, ha, 8fc. 
Something in her bosom wrings, 
For relief a sigh she brings ; 
And O, her een, they spak sic things • 

Ha, ha, §*c. 

Duncan was a lad o' grace. 

Ha, ha, Sfc. 
Maggie's was a piteous case. 

Ha, ha, Sfc. 
Duncan could na be her death, 
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; 
Now they're crouse and canty baith, 

Ha, ha, the wooing d't. 



\ 



EVAN BANKS. 

Slow spreads the gloom my souj aesire*, 
The sun fi-om India's shore retires ; 
To Evan banks, with temp rate ray, 
Home of my youth, it leads the day. 
Oh ! banks to me for ever dear ! 
Oh ! stream whose murmurs still I hear 5 
All, all my hopes of biiss reside. 
Where Evan mingles with the Clyde. 

* A well-Rnown rock m tire Frith of Clyde. 



20C 



BURNS' WORKS. 



An;! s.io, in simplfc beauty dresi, 
Wliose imajje lives within my breast; 
Wild trembling heard my piercing sigh, 
And long pursu'd me with her eye ! 
Does she, with heart unchang'd as mine, 
>ft in the vocal bowers recline ? 
Or where yon grot overhangs the tide, 
Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde. 

Ye lofty banks that Evan bound ! 
Ye lavish woods that wave around, 
And o'er, the stream your shadows throw, 
Which sweetly winds so far below ; 
What secret charm to mem'ry brings. 
All that on Evan's border springs ? 
Sweet banks ! ye bloom by JMary's side : 
Blest stream, she views thee haste to Clyde. 

Can all tht wealth of India's coast 

Atone for years in absence lost ? 

Return, ye moments of delight. 

With richer treasures bless my sight ! 

Swift from this desert let me part, 

And fly to meet a kindred heart ! 

Nor more may aught my steps divide 

Froui that dear stream which flows to Clyde. 



FAIR ELIZA. 



A GAELIC AIR. 



Turn again, thou fair Eliza, 

Ae kind blink before we part, 
Rew on thy despairing lover ! 

Canst thou break his faithfu' hean: 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza; 

If to love thy heart denies, 
For pity hide the cruel sentence 

Under friendship's kind disguise ! 

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended ? 

The offence is loving thee ; 
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever 

Wha for thine wad gladly die ! 
While the life beats in my bosom, 

Thou shalt mix in ilka throe : 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ae sweet smile on me bestow. 

Not the bee upon the blossom, 

In the pride o' sinny noon ; 
Not the little sporting fairy. 

All beneath the simmer moon ; 
Not the poet in the moment 

Fancy lightens on his ee, 
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture 

That thy presence gies to me. 



FAIREST MAID ON DEVON BANKS. 
Tune—" Rothiemurchie.* 

Fairest maid on Devon bunlis, 
Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 

Wilt thou lay that frown aside. 
And smile as thou wert wont to do 

Full well thou knowest I love thee dear, 
Couldst thou to malice lend an ear! 
O did not love exclaim, " Forbear ! 
Nor use a faithful lover so." 
Fairest maid, Sfc, 

Then come, thou fairest of the fair, 
Those wonted smiles, O let me share ; 
And by that beauteous self 1 swear, 
No love but thine ray heart shall know. 
Fairest maid, Sfc* 



FATE GAVE THE WORD. 
Tune — " Finlayslon IloiMe." 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 

And pierced my darling's heart: 
And with him all the joys are fled 

Life can to me impart. 
My cruel hands the sapling drops, 

In dust dishonour'd laid : 
So fell the pride of all my hopes, 

My age's future shade. 

The mother linnet in the brake 

Bewails her ravished young ; 
So I for my lost darling's sake, 

Lament the live-day long. 
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow. 

Now fond I bare my breast, 
O do thou kindly lay me low 

With him I love at rest ! 



'^OR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY 

My heart is sair, I dare nae tell. 
My heart is sair for somebody ; 
I could wake a *vinter night 
For the sake of somebody. 

Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 



• These verses, and the letter enclosing them, ar* 
written in a character that marks the very foeblt. stnco 
of their author. Mr. Syme is of opinion that he could 
not have b en in any danger of a jail at Dumfries, 
where certainly he had many firm friends, nor under 
any necessity of imiiioring aid from Edinburgh. But 
alKxit this time his mmd began to be at times unset- 
tli'd, and the iiorrors of a jail perpetually haunted his 
uaaguiation. He died on the 21st of this montli. 



SONGS. 



20J 



I could range the world around, 
For the sake of somebody. 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 

O sweetly smile on somebody ! 
Frae ilka danger keep him free, 
And send me safe my somebody. 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
I wad do — what wad I not, 
Fo_ the sake of somebody ! 



FORLORN, MY LOVE. 

Tune—" Let me in this ae night." 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near. 
Far, far from thee I wander here ; 
Far, far from thee, the fate severe 
At which I most repine, love. 

O tvert thou love, but near me, 
Snt near, near, near me ,- 
How kindly thou tvouldst cheer 
And mingle sighs with mine. 

Around me scowls a wintry sky. 
That blasts each bud of hope and joy ; 
And shelter, shade, nor home have I, 
Save in these arms of thine, love. 
O wert, Sfc. 

Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part, 

To poison fortune's ruthless dart — 

Let me not break thy faithful heart, 

And say that fate is mine, love. 

O wert, Sfc. 

But dreary tho' the moments fleet, 
O let me think we yet shall meet ! 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris shine, love. 
O wert, Sj-c. 



me, 
love. 



FROM THEE, ELIZA. 
Tun*—" Gilderoy." 

From thee, Eliza, I must go. 

And from my native shore ; 
The cruel fates between us throw 

A boundless ocean's roar : 
But boundless oceans, roaring wide 

Between my love and me. 
They never, never can divide 

My heart and soul from thee. 

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, 

The maid that I adore ! 
A boding voice is in mine ear, 

We part to meet no more. 
P2 



But the last throb that leaves my heart, 
While death stands victor by, 

That throb, Eliza, is thy part, 
And thine that latest sigh. * 



GALA WATER. 

Tune-~" Gala Water. ' 

There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow Vaes, 
That wander through the bluming heather 

But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws, 
Can match the lads o' Gala Water. 

But there is ane, a secret ane, 
Abune them a' I loe him better; 

And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, 
The bonnie lad o' Gala Water. 

Although his daddie was nae laird. 
And though I hae na mickle tocher ; 

Yet rich in kindest, truest love. 

We'll tent our flocks on Gala Water. 

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, 
That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure; 

The bands and bliss o' mutual love, 
O that's the chiefest warld's treasure ! 



GLOOMY DECEMBER. 

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 

Ance mair I hail thee, wi* sorrow and care ; 
Sad was the parting chou makes me remember, 

Parting wi' Nancy, Oh ! ne'er to meet mair 
Fond lovers parting is sweet painful pleasure, 

Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour ; 
But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever, 

Is anguish unmingl'd and agony pure. 

Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, 

'Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown, 
Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom, 

Since my last hope and last comfort is gone , 
Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 

Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 
For sad was the parting thoa makes me re- 
member. 

Parting wi' Nancy, Oh, ne'er to meet mair. 



» Miss Miller of Mauchline, (probably the same 
lady whom the poet has celebrated in his catalogue of 
tne beauties of that viliage— 

" Miss Miller is fine" ) 

afterwards Mrs. Templeton, was the heroine of this 
beautiful song. 



*4i}'4 



BURNS' WORKS. 



GREEN GROW THE RASHES; 



A FRAGMENT. 



Green grow the rashes, O ! 

Green grow the rashes, O ! 
The sweetest hours that e'er 1 spends 

Are spent amang the lasses, O ! 

There's nought but care on every han', 
In every hour that passes, O ; 

What signifies the life o' man, 
An* 'twere na for the hisses, O. 
Green grow, Sfc. 

The warly race may ri<ches chase, 
An' riches still may fly them, O ; 

j-^n though at last they catch them fast, 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. 
Green grow, Sfc. 

But gie me a canny hour at e'en. 
My arms about my dearie, O ; 

An' warly cares, an' warly men. 
May a gae tapsalteerie, O. 

Green grow, Sfc. 

For you 9o douse, ye sneer at this, 
Ye're nought but senseless asses, O ; 

The wisest man the warld e'er saw, 
He dearly loved the lasses, O. 
Green grow, 8fc. 

Auld nature swears, the lovely dears 
Her noblest work she classes, O ; 

Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, 
And then she made the lasses, O. 
Green grow, 8fc. 



GUDEWIFE, COUNT THE LAWIN. 

Thine — " Gudewife, count the Lawin." 

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night ; 
But we'll ne'er stray for faut o' light ; 
For ale and brandy's stars and moon. 
And blude-red wine's the rising sun. 

Then, gudewife, count the lawin, 

The lawin, the lawin. 

Then, gudewife, count the laivin, 

And bring a coggie mair. 

There's wealth and ease for gentlemen. 
And semple folk maun fecht and fen ; 
l^ut here we're a' in ae accord. 
Fur ilkii man that's drunk's a lord. 
Then, gudeivife, Sfc. 



And pleasure is a wanton tiout — 

An' ye drink but deep, ye'll find him oufw 

Then, gudetvife, count the lawin, 

The lawin, the lawin. 

Then, gudeivife, count the lawin^ 

And hring^s a coggie mair. 



HANDSOME NELL. 
Tune—" I am a man unmarried* 

O, ONCE I lov'd a bonnie lass, 

Av, and I love her still. 
And w ailst that virtue warms my breftsty 

I'll love my handsome Nell. 
Tal lal de ral, §'c. 

As bonnie lasses I hae seen, 

And mony full as braw, 
But for a modest gracefu' mien 

The like I never saw. 

Tal lal de ral, 8fc, 

A bonnie lass, I will confess, 

Is pleasant to the ee. 
But without some better qualities 

She's no a lass for me. 

Tal lal de ral, ^c. 

But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet» 

And what is best of a' 
Her reputation was complete. 

And fair without a flaw. 

Tal lal de ral, §•£. 

She dresses aye sae clean and neat, 

Both decent and genteel ; 
And then there's something in her gul 

Gars ony dress look weel. 

2'al lal de ral, 8fc. 

A gaudy dress and gentle air 

May slightly touch the heart, 
But it's innocence and modesty 

That polishes the dart. 

Tal lal de ral, §-c. 

*Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 

'Tis this enchants my soul ; 
For absolutely in my breast 

She reigns without control. 
Tal lal de ral, §-c. 

It must be confessed that these lines give nt 
indication of the future genius of Burns ; bu' 
he him>;elf seems to have been fond of them; 
probably from the recollections they excited. 



That 



2[ie is a haly pool, 
■ills the wounds o' 



care sind dor' 




\ 



K] D (S [Kl IL A Ik! © Wif^\^^ 



SONGS. 



203 



HAD I A CAVR 

Had I a cave on "some wild distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar, 
There would 1 weep my woes, 
'T'here seek my lost repose, 
Till grief my eyes should close, 
Ne'er to wake more. 

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare 
All thy fond plighted vows — fleeting as air ! 

To thy new lover hie, 

Laugh o'er th^ perjury, 

Then in thy bosom try 
What peace is there. 

Compare this with the old crambo-clink, — to 
the same air — 

You R weiCome to Paxton, young Robin Adair, 
Your welcome, but asking, sweet Robin Adair. 

How does Johnnie Mackeral do ? 

Aye, and Luke Gardener too ? 

Come love me and never rue, 
Robin Adair. 



HIGHLAND HARRY. 

My Harry was a gallant gay ; 

Fu' stately strode he on the plain ; 
But now he's banish'd far away, 
I'll never see him back again. 
Oh, for Jam hack again ! 

Oh, for him back again ! 
I tvad gie a Knockhaspies land 
For Highland Harry hack again. 

When a' the lave gae to their bed, 

I wander dowie up the glen ; 
I sit me down, and greet my fill. 

And aye I wish him back again. 

Oh, for him hack again ! ^c. 

Oh, were some villains hangit hie, 

And ilka body had their ain. 
Then I micht see the joyfu' sicht, 

My Highland Harry back again. 

Oh, for him hack again ! §*c. 

Sad was the day, and sad the hour, 

He left me in his native plain. 
And rush'd his much-wrong'd prince to join : 

But, oh ! he'll ne'er come back again ! 
Oh, for him hack again ! Sfc. 

Strong was my Harry's arm in war, 
Unmatch'd in a' Culloden's plain ; 

But vengeance marks him for her ain— . 
I'll never see him back again. * 

Oh, for him back again ! §*c. 



* The first three verses of this song, excepting the 
chorus, are by Burns. The air to which it is sung, is 
the H^hlander's Farewell to Ireland, with some alter- 
ations, sung slowly. 



HIGHLAND MARY. 

Tune — " Katherine Ogie." 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams aroKnd 

The Castle o' Montgomery ! * 
Green be your woods, and fair your flow rs, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there they langest tarry ! 
For there I took the last fareweel 

O* my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk i 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom ! 
As, underneath their fragrant shade, 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me, as light and life. 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' monie a vow and lock'd embrace, 

Our parting was fu* tender ; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore ourselves asunder : 
But, oh ! fell death's untimely frost, * 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary I 

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly I 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance, 

That dwelt on me sae kindly; 
And mould'ring now in silent dust. 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core, 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



HER FLOWING LOCKS ! 

A FRAGMENT. 

Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, 
Adown her neck and bosom hing; 

How sweet unto that breast to cling, 
And round that neck entwine her , 

Her lips are roses wat wi' dew, 
O, what a feast, her bonnie mou ! 

Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, 
A crimson still diviner. 



* CoUsfield House, near Mauchline ; but poetically 
titled as above, on account of the name ot the pro. 



204, 



BURNS' WORKS. 



HERE'S, A BOTTLE AND AN HONEST 
FRIEND. 

Here's, a bottle and an honest friend ! 

What wad ye wish for mair, man ? 
Wlia kens, before his life may end. 

What his share may be of care, man. 
Then catch the moments as they fly, 

And use them as ye ought, man :— 
Believe me, happiness is shy, 

And comes not ay when sought, man. 



HERE'S A HEALTH TO THEM 
THAT'S AWA. 

PATRIOTIC UNFINISHED. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

And wha winna wish gude luck to our cause, 

May never gude luck be their fa' ! 

It's gude to be merry and wise, 

It's gude to be honest and true, 

It's gude to support Caledonia's cause. 

And bide by the buff and the blue. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa ; 

Here's a health to Charlie, the chief o' the clan, 

Altho' that his band be sma'. 

May liberty meet wi' success ! 

May prudence protect her frae evil ! 

May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, 

And wander their way to the devil ! 

Here's a Lii&Ich to them that's awa, 

Here's a health to them that's awa. 

Here's a health to Tannnie, the Norland laddie, 

That lives at the lug of the law ! 

Here's freedom to him that wad read, 

Here's freedom to him that wad write ! 

There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should 

be heard, 
But they wham the truth would indite. 

Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a Chieftain ^orth 

gowd, 
Tho' bred amang mountains o' snaw I 



HERE'S A HEALTH TO ANE 1 LO'E 
DEAR. 

Tune--" Here's a Health to them thafs awa." 

Here's a health to ane T lo'e dear — 
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ; 



Thou art sweet as the smile when kind liovera 

meet. 
And soft as their parting tear, Jessie ! 

Although thou maun never be mine— 
Although even hope is denied — 

'Tis sweeter for thee despairing 

Than aught in the world beside, Jessie ! 

I mourn through the gay gaudy day. 
As hopeless I muse on thy charms ; 

But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber. 
For then I am lock'd in thy arms, Jessie ? 

I guess by the dear angel smile, 

I guess by the love-rolling ee j 
But why urge the tender confession, 

'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree, Jessie '.* 



HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS 

ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH SONO. 

Tune—" John Anderson my jo." 

How cruel are the parents 

Who riches only prize. 
And to the wealthy booby, 

Poor woman sacrifice. 
Meanwhile the hapless daughter 

Has but a choice of strife ; 
To shun a tyrant father's hate. 

Become a wretched wife. 

The ravening hawk pursuing. 

The trembling dove thus flies, 
To shun impelling ruin 

A while her pinions tries ; 
'Till of escape despairing, 

No shelter or retr-'^t, 
She trusts the ruthless falconer, 

And drops beneath his feet. 



HOW LANG AND DREARY IS THE 
NIGHT. 

Tune—" Cauld Kail in Aberdeen 

How lang and dreary is the night. 

When I am frae my dearie • 
I restless lie frae e'en to morn. 

Though I were ne'er sae weary. 

For, oh, her lane!?/ nights are lang, 
And, oh, her dreams are eerie, 

And, oh, her widow'd heart is sair^ 
Thafs absent frae her dearie. 



* Written upon Miss Lewars, now Mrs. Thomson 
of Dumfries; a true friend and a great favourite o- 
the poet, and, at his (ieathi, one of the most symp» 
thizing friends of his afflicted widow. 



SONGS. 



205 



When I tLink on the lightsome days 
I spent wi thee, my dearie ; 

And now what seas between us roar, 
How can I but be eerie ? 
For, oh, 8fc. 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours ; 

The joyless day how dreary ! 
It wasna sae ye glinted by, 

When I was wi' my dearie. 
For, oh, §-c. 



I AM A SON OF MARS. 

Tunc — " Soldier's Joy." 

I AM son of Mars who have been in many 

wars, 
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; 
This heie was for a wench, and that other in a 

trench, 
When welcoming the French at the sound of 

the drum. 

Z,al de daudle, §*c. 

My 'prenticeship I past where my leader 

breath 'd his last, 
When the bloody die was cast on the heights of 

Abram ; 
I served out ray trade when the gallant game 

was play'd, 
And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the 

drum. 

Ztol de daudle, S^c. 

I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating 

batt'ries, 
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb ; 
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to 

head me, 
I'd clatter my stumps at the sound of the drum. 
Z^al de daudle, 8cc. 

And now tho' I must beg with a wooden arm 

and leg, 
And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum, 
I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle and my 

callet, 
As when I us'd in scarlet to follow a drum. 
IjoI de daudle, ^c. 

What tho' with hoary locks, I must stand the 

winter shocks, 
Beneath the woods and rocks often times for a 

home, 
When the tother bag I sell, and the tother 
bottle tell, 
could meet a troop of hell at the sound of the 
drum. 

Iicd de daudle, Sfc. 



I DREAM'D I LAY WHERE FLOWERS 
WERE SPRINGmO. 

These two stanzas I composed when I wag 
seventeen, and are among the oldest of my print- 
ed pieces. 

I dream'd I lay where flowers were spring '.ng; 

Gaily in the sunny beam ; 
List'ning to the wild birds singing, 

By a falling, crystal stream : 
Straight the sky grew black and daring ; 

Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave ; 
Trees with aged arms were warring, 

O'er the swelling, drumlie wave. 

Such was my life's deceitful morning, 

Such the pleasures 1 enjoy'd ; 
But lang or noon, loud tempests storming, 

A' my flow'ry bliss destroy'd. 
Tho' fickle fortune has deceiv'd me, 

She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill ; 
Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me, 

1 bear a heart shall support me still. 



I'LL AYE CA' IN BY YON TOUN 

Tune—" rU gang nae mair to yon tovrtk.* 

I'll aye ca' in by yon toun. 

And by yon garden green again ; 

I'll aye ca' in by yon toun. 

And see my bonnie Jean again. 

There's nane shall ken, there's nane shall gus 
What brings me back the gate again, 

But she, my fairest faithfu' lass ; 
And stowlins we shall meet again. 

She'll wander by the aiken tree, 

When trystin time draws neai* agaia ; 

And when her lovely form I see, 
O haith, she's doubly dear again. 

I'll aye ca' in by yon toun. 

And by yon garden green again ; 

I'll aye ca' in by yon toun. 

And see my bonnie Jean again. 



'M O'ER YOUNG TO MARR\ lif. 

The chorus is old : — the rest of it, such w 
IS, is mine. 

I'm my mammy's ae bairn, 

Wi' unco folk, I weary. Sir ; 
And lying in a man's bed, 

I'm fley'd wad mak me irie, Sir. 
I'm o'er young, Fm der yourg, 
Tm, o'er young to marry yet ; 



205 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Fm o'er young, twad he a sin 
To tah '\e frae my mammy yet. 

Hallowmas is jorae and gane, 

The nights are lang in winter, Sir ; 

And you and I in ae bed, 

In trowth I darena venture. Sir. 
J'm o'er young, §*c. 

My minnie coft me a new gown, 

The kirk maun hae the gracing o't ; 

War I to lie wi' you, kind Sir, 

I'm fear'd ye'd spoil the lacing o't. 
Fm o'er young, &^c. 

Fu' loud and shrill the frosty wind 
Blaw8 thro' the leafless timmer, Sir ; 

But should ye come this gate again, 
I'll aulder be gin simmer, Sir. 

Fm o^er young, §*c. 



IT IS NA', JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE. 

These were originally English verses : — I 
gave them their Scotch dress. 

It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face, 

Nor shape that I admire, 
Altho' thy beauty and thy grace 

Might weel awauk desire. 
Something in ilka part o' thee 

To praise, to love, I find ; 
But dear as is thy form to me, 

Still dearer is thy mind. 

Nae mair ungen'rous wish I hae, 

Nor stronger in my breast, 
Than, if I canna mak thee sae, 

At least to see thee blest. 
Content am I, if heaven shall give 

But happiness to thee : 
And as wi' thee I'd wish to live, 

For thee I'd bear to die. 



JAMIE, COME TRY ME. 

Jamie, come try me, 
Jamie, come try me ; 
If ye wad win my love. 
Can ye na try me ? 
if ye should ask my love, 
Could 1 deny thee ? 
If ye wad win my love, 
Jamie, come try me. 

My heart leaps light, my love, 
When ye come nigh me ; 
If I had wing«, my love. 
Think na I'd fly thee. 



If ye wad woo me, love, 
Wha can espy thee ? 
I'm far aboon fortune, love, 
When I am by thee. 

I come from my chamber 

When the moon's glowing ; 

I walk by the streamlet 

'Mang the broom flowing. 

The bright moon and stars, Iovb-«i 

None else espy me ; 

And if ye wad win my love, 

Jamie, come try me. 



JOCKIE'S TA'EN THE PARTING KIS& 

Jockie's ta'en the parting kiss, 

Ower the mountains he is gane ; 
And with him is a' my bliss ; 

Nought but griefs wi' me remain. 
Spare my love, ye winds that blaw, 

Plashy sleets, and beating rain ! 
Spare my love, thou feathery snaw, 

Drifting o'er the frozen plain ! 

When the shades of evening creep 

Ower the day's fair gladsome ee, 
Sound and safely may he sleep, 

Sweetly blythe his waukening be ! 
He will think on her he loves. 

Fondly he'll repeat her name ; 
For, where'er he distant roves, 

Jockie's heart is still at hame.' 



JOHN BARLEYCOR>. 



There were three kings into the east, 
Three kings both great and high, 

An' they hae sworn a solemn oath ' 
John Barleycorn should die. 

They took a plough and plough'd him dawOf 

Put clods upon his head, 
And they hae sworn a solemn oath 

John Barleycorn was (Im*^- 

But the cheerful spring came kindly on, 

And show'rs began to fall , 
John Barleycorn got up again. 

And sore surpris'd them all. 

The sultry suns of summer came, 

And he grew thick and strong. 
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, 

That no one should him wrong. 



' This is partly composed on the plan of tax cM 
song known by the same name. 



SONGS. 



20^ 



The sober autumn enter'd mild, 
When he grew wan and pale ; 

!''S bending joints and drooping head 
Show'd he began to fail. 

His colour sicken'd more and more, 

He faded into age ; 
And then his enemies began 

To show their deadly rage. 

They've ta'et a weapon long and sharp, 

And cut him by the knee ; 
Then ty*d him fast upon a cart, 

Like a rogue for forger ie. 

They laid him down upon his back, 
And cudgell'd him full sore ; 

They hung him up before the storm, 
And turn'd him o'er and o'er. 

They filled up a darksome pit 

With water to the brim, 
They heaved in John Barleycorn, 

There let him sink or swim. 



They laid him out upon the floor, 

To work him farther woe, 
And still as signs of life appear'd. 

They toss'd him to and fro. 

They v/asted o'er a scorching flame, 

The marrow of his bones ; 
But a miller used him worst of all, 

For he crush'd him between two stones. 

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood 
A'ld drank it round and round ; 

And still the more and more they drank, 
Their joy did more abound. 

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, 

Of noble enterprise, 
For if you do but taste his blood, 

'Twill make your courage rise. 

Twill make a man forget his woe ; 

'TwOl heighten all his joy: 
Twill make the widow's heart to sing, 

Tho' the tear were in her eye. 

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, 

Each man a glass in hand ; 
And may his great posterity 

Ne'er fai in old Scotland ! 



JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO, IMPROVED. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, I wonder what 

you mean, 
To rise so soon in the moi ning, and sit up sf ' And mony°a canty day, John, we've had wi 

late at e en, , aj^g anither : 



Ye'll blear out a' your een, John, and why 

should you do so, 
Gang sooner to your bed at e'en, John Anderson, 

my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, when nature first 
began 

To try her canny hand, John, her master-work 
was man ; 

And you amang them a', John, sae trig frae 
tap to toe, 

She proved to be nae journey-work, John An- 
derson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, ye were my first 
conceit, 

And ye na think it strange, John, tho' I ca' ye 
trim and neat ; 

Tho' some folk say ye're auld, John, I never 
think ye so. 

But I think ye're ave the same to me, John An- 
derson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, we've seen our 

bairns' bairns, 
And yet, my dear John Anderson, I'm happy 

in your arms. 
And sae are ye in mine, John — I'm sure ye'll 

ne'er say no, 
Tho' the days are gane, that we have seen, John 

Anderson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, what pleasure 
does it gie 

To see sae mony sprouts, John, spring up 'tween 
you and me, 

And ilka lad and lass, John, in our footsteps to go, 

Makes perfect heaven here on earth, John An- 
derson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, when we were 
first acquaint. 

Your locks were like the raven, your bonnie 
brow was brent. 

But now your head's turned bald, John, your 
locks are like the snaw. 

Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John Ander- 
son, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, frae year to yeai 
we've past. 

And soon that year maun come, John, will 
bring us to our last : 

But let nae that affright us, John, our hearts 
were ne'er our foe, 

While in innocent delight we lived, John An- 
derson, my jo. 



John Anderson, my jo, John, we clam the hi! 

thegither. 



208 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Now we maun totter down, John, but hand in 

hand we'll go, 
And we'll sleep thegither at the foot, John An- 

deison, my jo. 



LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER. 

Tune-^" The Lothian liassie." 

Last May a braw wooer cam' down the lang 
glen. 
And salr wi' his love he did deave me ; 
I said there was naething I hated like men : 
The deuce gae wi' him to believe me, believe 

me. 
The deuce gae wi' him to believe me ! 

He spak' o' the darts o' my bonnie black een, 
And vow'd for my love he was deein'. 

I said he micht dee when he liked for Jean ; 
The guid forgi'e me for leein', for leein', 
The guid forgi'e me for leeiu' ! 

A weel-stockit mailin', himsell for the laird. 
And marriage aff-hand, were his proffer. 

I never loot on that I kcno'd it or cared ; 
But thoch* I might hae a waur oifer, waur 

offer, 
But thought I might hae a waur offer. 

But, what wad ye think, in a fortnicht or less, — 
The deil's in his taste to gang near her ! — 

He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess — 
Guess ye how, the jaud ! I could bear her, 

could bear her, 
Guess ye how, the jaud ! I could bear her ! 

But a' the neist week, as I fretted wi' care, 
I gaed to the tryst o' Dalgarnock ; 

And wha but ray braw fickle wooer was there ? 
Wha glowr'd as he had seen a warlock, a 

warlock, 
Wha glowr'd as he had seen a warlock. 

Out ower my left shouther I gi'ed him a blink, 
Lest neebors micht say I was saucy ; 

My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 

I speir'd for my cousin, fou couthie and sweet, 

Gin she had recover'd her hearin' ? 
\nd how my auld shoon fitted her shauchled 
feet ?* 
Gude sauf us ! how he fell a-swearin', a- 

swearin', 
Gude sauf us ! how he fell a-swearin'. 



He begged, for gudesake ! I wad be his vriSt, 
Or else I wad kill him wi* sorrow ; 

Sae, e'en to preserve the pair body in life, 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to>fi0f^ 

row, 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow. 



* In Scotland, when a cast-off lover pays his ad. 
dresses to a new mistress, that new mistress is said to 
have got the auld shoon (old shoes) of the former one. 
Here ihe metaphor is made to carry ;in extremely in- 
genious sarcasm at the clumsiness of tlie new mistress's 
person. 



LASSIE Wr THE LINT- WHITE LOCKS 
TMnf — " Rothiemutchus' Rant." 

Lassie wi' the lint white locks, 

Eonnie lassie, artless lassie, 
Wilt thou wV me tend the flocks 9 

Wilt thou he my dearie, O ? 

Now Nature cleads the flowery lea. 
And a* is young and sweet like thee, 
O, wilt thou share its joys wi' me, 
And say thou'lt be my dearie, O ? 
Lassie wi\ Sj-c. 

And when the welcome simmer shower 
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, 
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower, 
At sultry noon, my dearie, O. 
Lassie wi', 8fc. 

When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, 
The weary shearer's hameward way, 
Through yellow-waving fields we'll stray. 
And talk o' love, my dearie, O. 
Lassie, wV, Sfc. 

And whea the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnignt rest, 
Enclasped to my faithml breast, 
I'll comfort thee, my dearie, O. 
Lassie, wV, ^c. 



LAY THY LOOP IN MINE, LASS 

Tune—" O lay the loof in mine, lais." 

O LAY thy loof in mine, lass. 
In mine, lass, in mine, lass ; 
And swear on thy white hand, lass, 
That thou wiit be my ain. 

A slave to love's unbounded sway, 
He aft ha.s wrought me muckle wae j 
But now he is my deadly fae. 
Unless thou be my ain. 

There's mony a lass has broke my res^ 
That for a blink I hae lo'ed best ; 
But thou art queen within my breast, 
For ever to remain. 



1 

SONGS. 1t09 1 


I,E' not woman E'ER COMPLAIN. 


Again the merry month o' IMay, 




Has made our hills and valleys gay ; 


Tune—" Duncan Gray." 


The birds lejoice in leafy bowers, 


Let not woman e'er complain 


The bees hum round the breathing floweri , 


Of inconstancy in love ; 


BIythe morning lifts his rosy eye, 


Let not woman e'er complain, 


And evening's tears are tears of joy : 


Fickle man is apt to rove. 


My soul, deiightless, a' surveys, 




While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 


Look abroad through nature's range, 




Nature's mighty law is change ; 


Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush) 


Ladies, would it not be strange, 


Amang her nestlings sits the thrush : 


Man should, then, a monster prove ? 


Her faith fu' mate will share her toil, 




Or wi' his song her cares beguile ; 


ftlark the winds, and mark the skies ; 


But I, wi' my sweet nurslings here, 


Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow. 


Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, 


Sun and mo(m but set to rise ; 


Pass widow'd nights and joyless days, 


Round and round the seasons go. 


While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 


Why, then, ask of silly man, 


O wae upon you, men o' state, 


To oppose great nature's plan ? 


That brethren rouse to deadly hate 


We'll be constant while we can. 


As ye make mony a fond heart mourn. 


You can be no more, you know. 


Sae may it on your heads return ! 




How can your flinty hearts enjoy, 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry;* 






But soon may peace bring happy days, 


LONG, LONG THE NIGHT 


And Willie, hame to Logan braes ! 


Tunt—" Aye wakin'." 
Long, long the night, 






Heavy comes the morrowy 




While my souPs delight, 




Is on her bed of sorrow. 


LORD GREGORY. 


Can I cease to care, 


Oh, mirk, mirk is this midnight hour. 


Can I cease to languish, 


And loud the tempests roar ; 


While my darling fair 


A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower. 


Is on the couch of anguish ? 


Lord Gregory, ope thy door ! 


Long, §-c. 






An exile frae her father's ha*, 


Every hope is fled. 


And a' for loving thee ; 


Every fear is terror 


At least some pity on me shaw. 


Slumber e'en 1 dread. 


If love it may na be. 


Every dream is horroi 




Long, Sfc. 


Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grot 




By bonnie Irvine side, 


Hear me, pow'rs divine ! 


Where first I own'd that virgin love 


Oh, in pity hear me ! 


I lang lang had denied ? 


Take aught else of mine, 




But my Chloris spare me ! 


How aften didst thou pledge the vow, 


Long, 8fc. 


Thou wad for aye be mine ! 




And m,y fond heart, itsell sae true. 




It ne'er mistrusted thiae. 
Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, 


LOGAN BRAES. 




And flinty is thy breast ! 


Titne—'' Logan Water." 


Thou dart of heaven that flashes by, 


0, Logan sweeetly didst thou glide, 


Oh, wilt thou give me rest ! i 


That day I was my Willie's bride ; 
And years sinsyne hae o'er us run, 
Like Logan to the simmer sun. 


Ye mustering thunders from above, 1 
Your willing victim see ; 


But now the floweiy banks appear 




"""""" 


Like drumlie winter, dark an drear, 


• Originally, 


While my dear lad maun face his faes. 


'• Ye mind na 'mid your cruel joy^, 


Far, far frae me and Logan braes. 


•• ihe widow's tears, the orplian's''i;ri«»« 



nc 

But spare ana pardon my false love 
' His wrongs to heaven and me ! * 



BURNS' WORKS. 



LINES ON LORD DAER. 

This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
L Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 

October twenty-third, 
A ne'er-to-be-forgntten day, 
Sae far I sprackled | up the brae, 

1 dinner'd wi' a Lord. 

I've been at dinckeui-writers^ ^ feasts, 
Nay, been bitch fou 'mang godly priests, 

Wi* rev'rence be it spoken ; 
I've even join'd the honour'd jorum, 
When mighty Squireships of the quorum, 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 

But wi a Lord — stand out my shin, 
A Lord — a Peer — an Earl's son, 

Up higher yet my bonnet ; 
An' sic a Lord — lang Scotch ells twa, 
Our peerage he o'erlooks thera a' 

As 1 look o'er a sonnet. 

But O for Hogarth's magic power ! 
To show Sir Bardy's willyart glowr,§ 

And how he stared and stammer'd, 
Whan goavan || as if led wi' branks,^ 
An' stumpan on his ploughman shanks. 

He in the parlour haramer'd. 



I sidling shelter'd in a nook. 
An'- at his Lordship steal't a look. 

Like some portentous omen ; 
Except good sense and social glee. 
An' (what surprised me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 

I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great, 

The gentle pride, the lordly state 

The arrogant assuming ; 
The fient a piide, nae pride had he, 
Nor sauce, nor state that I could see, 

Mair than an honest ploughman. 

Then from his Lordship I shall learn, 
Hencefortn to meet with unconcern, 

One rank as well's another ; 
Nae honest worthy man need care, 
To meet with noble youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 

These lines will be read with no common in- 
terest by all who remember the unaffected sim- 



* This song was composed upon the subject of tSie 
well-known and ver\' beautiful ballad, entitled " The 
Lass of Loch ro van." 

t Clambered'. i Attorneys. 

k, Frightened stare. || Walking stupidly. 

% A kind of bridle. 



plicity of appearance, the sweetness of counte. 
nance and manners, and the unsuspecting bene- 
volence of heart, of Basil, Lord Daer. — It was ? 
younger brother of his who, as Earl of Selkirk, 
became so well known as the advocate of volun- 
tary emigration, and who settled the colony 
upon the Red River. 



MACPHERSON'S FAREWELI* 
T^ne—" Macpherson's Rant. ' 

Fareweil, ye prisons dark and strong. 

The wretch's destinie ! 
Macpherson's time will not be long 
On yonder gallows tree ! 

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 

Sae dantonly gatd he. 
He play'd a spring, and danced it rcandt 
Beneath the gallows tree ! 

Oh, what is death, but parting breath ? 

On mony a bluidy plain 
I've daur'd his face, and in this place 

I scorn him yet again. 

Sae rantingly, 8^c. 

Untie these bands frae aff my hands, 

And bring to me my sword ; 
And there's nae man in a' Scotland 

But I'll brave him at a word. 
Sae rantingly, ^c. 

I've lived a life of sturt and strife ; 

I die by treacherie ; 
It burns my heart I must depart, 

And not avenged be. 

Sae rantingly, |'c. 

Now fareweil, light, thou sunshine bnght* 

And all bpne.;th the sky ! 
May coward shaaiv iii>tain his name, 

The wretch that dares not die ! 
Sae rantingly, 8fc. 



MARIA'S DWELLING. 
Tune—" The last time I cam o'er the Moor.* 

Farewell thou stream that winding flows 

Around Maria's dwelling ! 
Ah cruel mem'ry ! spare the threes 

Within my bosom swelling : 
Condemn'd to drag a hopeless chain, 

And still in secret languish ; 
To feel a fire in ev'ry vein, 

Yet dare not speek my anguish. 

The wretch of love, unseen, unknown, 
I fain my crime would cover : 



I 



SONGS. 



211 



The bursting sigli, tli' unweeting groan 

Betray the hopeless lover. 
I know my doom must be despair, 

Thou wilt, nor canst relieve me ; 
But oh, Maria, hear one prayer, 

For pity's sake forgive me. 

The music of thy tongue I heard, 

Nor wist while it enslav'd me ; 
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'a, 

'Till fears no more had saved me. 
The unwary sailor thus aghast, 

The wheeling torrent viewing ; 
'Mid circling horrors yields at last 

To overwhelming ruin. 



MARK YONDER POMP. 
Tune—" Deil tak* the wars." 

]VIark yonder pomp of costly fashion, 

Round the wealthy, titled bride : 
But when compared with real passion, 

Poor is all that princely pride. 

What are their showy treasures ? 

What are their noisy pleasures ? 
The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art. 

The polish'd jewel's blaze, 

May draw the wond'ring gaze, 

And courtly grandeur bright, 

The fancy may delight, 
But never, never can come near the heart. 

But did you see my dearest Chloris, 

In simplicity's array ; 
Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is, 

Shrinking from the gaze of day. 

O then the heart alarming, 

And all resistless charming, 
In Love's delightful tetters she chains the wil- 
ling soul ! 

Ambition would disown 

The world's imperial crown. 

Even Av'rice would deny 

His worshipp'd deity, 
And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll. 



MARY MORISON. 

Tune—" Bide ye yet." 

O, Mary, at thy window be ; 

It is the wished, the trysted hour : 
Those smiles and glances let me see 

That make the miser's treasure poor. 
How blythely wad I hyde the stoure, 

A weary slave fiae sun to sun. 
Could I the rich reward secure, 

The Icv'y Mary Morison ! 

Yestreen, when to the stented string 
The dance gaed through the lichtit ha', 



To thee my fancy took its wing— . 

I sat, but neither heard nor saw. 
Though this was fair, and that was braw 

And you the toast o' a' the town, 
I sigh'd, and said amang them a'. 

Ye are na Mary Morison. 

O, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee ? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only faut is loving thee ? 
If love for love thou wilt na gie, 

At least be pity to me shown ; 
A thocht ungentle canna be 

The thocht of Mary Morison. 



MEG O' THE MILL. 

Tuns—" O bonnie lass, will you lie in a barrack " 

O, KEN ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten. 
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? 
She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller. 
And broken the heart o' the barley mifler. 

The miller was strappin', the miller was ruddy j 
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady : 
The laird was a wuddiefu' bleerit knurl ; 
She's left the guid fallow, and ta'en the churl. 

The miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving : 
The laird did address her wi' matter mair mo- 

A fine pacing-horse wi' a clear-chain'd bridle, 
A whip by her side, and a bonny side-saddle. 

O wae on the siller, it's sae prevailing ; 
And wae on the love that's fix'd on a mailin' ! 
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's paile. 
But, Gie me my love, and a fig for the warl ! 



MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. 

I COMPOSED these verses out of compliment 
to a Mrs. M'Lachlan, whose husband is an of- 
ficer in the East Indies. 

Tune—" Drumion Dubh." 

Musing on the roaring ocean. 
Which divides my love and me ; 

Wearying heaven in warm devotion, 
For his weal where'er he be. 

Hope and fear's alternate billow 

Yielding late to nature's law, 
Whispring spirits round my pillow, 

Talk of him that's far awa. 

Ye whom sorrow never wounded. 
Ye who never shed a tear, 



212 



BURNS* WORKS. 



Care-uiitroubled, joy -surrounded, 
'laudy day to you is dear. 

Gentle night, do thou befriend me, 
Downy sleep the curtain draw ; 

Spirits kind, again attend me, 
Talk of him that's far awa ! 



MY BONNIE MARY. 

This air is Oswald's ; the first half-stanza 
of the song is old, the rest mine.* 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 

An' fill it in a silver tassie ; 
That I may drink before I go, 

A service to my honnie lassie ; 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith ; 

Fu' loud the wind blaws fi-ae the ferry ; 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And I maun lea'e my bonnie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

The glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
The shouts o' war are heard aftir, 

The battle closes thick and bloody ; 
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; 
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar. 

It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 



MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not 

here — 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ; 
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the 

North, 
The birth-place of valour, the country of worth ; 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, 
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 

Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with 

snow ; 
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below ; 
Farewell to the forests and wild hanging woods , 
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not 

here ; 
l\Iy heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer. 
Chasing the wild deer and following the roe — j 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. ' 



« Tliis song, whicli Burns here acknowledges to be | 
his own, was first introduced by him in a letter to 
Mrs. Uunlop, as two old staTizas. I 



MY LADY'S GOWN THERE'S GAIRS 
UPON'T. 

My lady's gown there's gairs upon't, 
And gowden flowers sae rare upon't ; 
But Jenny's jimps and jirkinet. 
My lord thinks muckle mair upon't. 

My lord a-hunting he is gane. 

But hounds or hawks wi' him are nane; 

By Colin's cottage lies his game, 

If Colin's Jenny be at hame. 

My lady's white, my lady's red. 
And kith and kin o' Cassilis' blude. 
But her ten-pund lands o' tocher gude 
Were a' the charms his lordship lo'ed. 

Out o'er yon moor, out o'er yon moss, 
Whare gor-cocks through the heather past • 
There wons auld Colin's bonny lass, 
A lily in a wilderness. 

Sae sweetly move her genty limbs, 
Like music notes o' lover's hymns : 
The diamond dew is her een sae blue, 
Where laughing love sae wanton swims. 

My lady's dink, my lady's drest. 
The flower and fancy o' the west ; 
But the lassie that man lo'es the best, 
O that's the lass to mak him blest. 



TVtn*'— ' 



MY NANNIE'S AWA. 



There'll never be peace till Jamie comet 
hame." 



Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays. 
And listens the lambkins that bleat ower the 

braes. 
While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw ; 
But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa. 

The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands 

adorn. 
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn ; 
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw ! 
They mind me o' Nannie — and Nannie's awa. 

Thou laverock, that springs frae the dews of 

the lawn. 
The shepherd to warn of the grey-breaking 

dawn ; 
And thou mellow mavis, that hails the night-fa' ; 
Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa. 

Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and grey^ 
And soothe me wi' tidings o' nature's decay: 
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw 
Alane can delight me — my Nannie's awa. 



MY NANNIE, O. 
Tune—" My Nannie, O." 

Behind yon hills where Stinchar flows, 

Mang moors an' mosses many, O, 
The wintry sun the day has clos'd, 

And I'll awa to Nannie, O. 
Tlie westland wind blaws loud an' shrill ; 

The night's baith uiirk and rainy, O ; 
But I'll get my plaid and out I'll steal, 

An* owre the hills to Nannie, O. 

My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young j 

Na' artfu' wiles to win ye, O ; 
May ill befa' the flattering tongue 

That wad beguile my Nannie, O. 
Her face is fair, her heart is true, 

As spotless as she's bonnie, O : 
The opening gowan, wet wi' dew, 

Nae purer is than Nannie, O. 

A country lad is my degree. 

An' few there l)e that ken me, O ; 
But what care I how few they be, 

I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O. 
My riches a' 's my penny-fee, 

An' I maun guide it cannie, O j 
But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, 

My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O. 

Our auld Guidman delights to view 

His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, O ; 
But I'm as blythe that bauds his plough, 

An' has nae care but Nannie, O. 
Come weel, come woe, I care na by, 

I'll take what Heaven will sen' me, O; 
Nae ither care in life hae I, 

But live, an' love my Nannie, O. 



MY PEGGY'S FACE. 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form 
The frost of Hermit age might warm ; 
INIy Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, 
Might charm the first of human kind : 
I love my Peggy's angel air. 
Her face so truly, heavenly fair, 
Her native grace so void of art, 
But I adore my Peggy's heart. 

The lily's hue, the rose's dye. 
The kindling lustre of an eye ; 
Who but owns their magic sway, 
Who but knows they all decay ! 
The tender thrill, the pitying tear. 
The generous purpose, nobly dear, 
The gentle look, that rage disarms, 
Thesp are all immortal charnas. 



SONGS. 215 I 

MY SODGER LADDIE, | 

! 

THE soldier's DOXy's SONG IN " THE JOLLl i 

BEGGAKS." i 



Tune—" Sodger Laddie." 

I ONCE was a maid, tho' I canna tell when. 
And still my delight is in proper young men ; 
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie,— 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lai de lal, §*c. 

! 
The lirst of my loves was a swaggering blade, ; 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; ! 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, 
Transported I was with my sodger laddie. 

Sinp, Lal de lal, S^c. 

But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch. 
The sword I forsook for the sake of the church, 
He ventur'd the soul, and I risked the bodi/, 
'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. 
Sinff, Lal de lal, 8fc. 

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, 
The regiment at large for a husband I got ; 
From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was readvt 
I asked no more but a sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, Sfc. 

But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair, 
Till I met my old boy at Cunningham fair ; 
His rag regimental they flutter'd so gaudy, 
My heart it rejoic'd at my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, ^c. 

And now I have liv'd — I know not how long, 

And still I can join in a cup or a song ; 

But whilst with both hands I can hold the glas? 

steady. 
Here's to thee, my hero, my sod2;er laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, §*c. 



MY SPOUSE NANCIE. 
Tune — " My Jo, Janet." 

Husband, husband, cease your etrite^ 
Nor longer idly rave. Sir ; 

Though I am your wedded wife, 
Yet I'm not your slave. Sir. 

One of two must still obey, 

Nancie, Nancie; 
Is it man or woman, say, 

My spouse Nancie ? 

l£ 'tis still the lordly word. 

Service and obedience ; 
I'll desert my sovereign lord. 

And so good-bye allegiance 

Sad will I be so bereft, 
Nancie, Nancie : 



2H 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Yet I'll try to make a smft, 
My spouse Nancie. 

My poor heart then break it must, 

My last hour I'm near it ; 
When you lay me in the dust, 

Think — think how you will bear it. 

I will hope and trust in Heaven, 

Nancie, Nancie, 
Strength to bear it wiU be given. 

My spouse Nancie. 

Well, Sir, from the silent dead, 
Still I'll try to daunt you ; 

Ever I'ound your midnight bed 
Horrid sprites shall haunt you. 

I'll wed another like my dear 

Nancie, Nancie ; 
Then all hell will fly for fear, 

My spouse Nancie I 



MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. 

O MEiKLE thinks my luve o' my beauty. 

And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin ; 
But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie. 

My tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 
it's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; 

It's a' for the hinney he'll cherish the bee, 
Mv laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller, 

He canna hae luve to spare for me. 

Your proffer o' luve's an arle penny. 

My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; 
But an' ye be crafty, I am cunnin, 

Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try. 
Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood, 

Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree, 
Ye'U slip frae me like a knotless thread, 

And ye'U crack your ciedit wi' mae nor me. 



MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. 

Tunt — " My wife's a wanton wee thing." 

She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine ! 

I never saw a fairer, 
I never loo'd a dearer ; 
And neist my heart I'll wear her, 
For fear my jewel tine. 

She is a winsome wee thing. 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing. 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 



The warld's wrack we share »'ti 
The warstle and the care g't ^ 
W' her I'll blythely bear it, 
And think my lot divine. 



NAE-BODY. 

I HAE a wife o' my ain, 
I'll partake wi* nae-body j 

I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 
I'll gie cuckold to nae-body. 

I hae a penny to spend. 

There — thanks to nae-body; 
I hae naething to lend, 

I'll borrow frae nae-body. 

I am nae-body's lord, 

I'll be slave to nae-body j 

I hae a guid braid sword, 
I'll tak dunts frae nae-body. 

I'll be merry and free., 
I'll be sad for nae-body ; 

If nae-body care for me, 
I'll care for nae-body. 



NANCY. 



Thine am I, my faitliful fair, 
Thine, my lovely Nancy ; 

Ev'ry pulse along my veins, 
Ev'ry roving fancy. 

To thy bosom lay my heart. 
There to throb and languish ; 

Tho' despair had wrung its core, 
That would heal its anguish. 

Take away these rosy lips. 
Rich with balmy treasure : 

Turn away thine eyes of love, 
Lest I die with pleasure. 

What is life when wanting love ? 

Night without a morning : 
Love's the cloudless summer sun 

Nature gay adorning. 



NOW SPRING HAS CLAD THE G ROVB 
IN GREEN. 

Now spring has clad the grove m greeHj 

And strew'd the lea wi' flowers j 
The furrow'd waving corn is seen 

Re]oi(te in fostering showers , 



SONGS. 



215 



Wliile ilka thing in nature join 

Their sorrows to forego, 
O why thus all alone are mine 

The weaiy steps of woe ! 

The trout within yon wimpling burn 

Glides swift, a silver dart, 
And safe beneath the shady thorn 

Defies the angler's art ; 
My life was ance that careless stream, 

That wanton trout was I ; 
But love, wi' unrelenting beam, 

Has scorch'd my fountains dry. 

The little flow'ret's peaceful lot, 

In yonder cliff that grows, 
Which save the linnet's flight, I wot, 

Nae ruder visit knows, 
Was mine ; till love has o'er me past, 

And blighted a' my bloom, 
Aiid now beneath the withering blast. 

My youth and joy consume. 

The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs, 

And climbs the early sky. 
Winnowing blytlie hei dewy wings 

In morning's rosy eye ; 
As little re'ckt I sorrow's power. 

Until the flowery snare 
0' witching love, in luckless hour, 

Made me the thrall o' care. 

had my fate been Greenland's snows, 

Or Afric's burning zone, 
Wi' man and nature leagued my foes, 

So Peggy ne'er I'd known ! 
Tbe wretch whase doom is, " hope nae mair," 

That tongue his woes can tell ! 
Within whase bosom, save despair, 

Nae kinder spirits dwell. 



NOW BANK AND BRAE ARE CLAD 
IN GREEN. 

Now bank and brae are clad in green 

An' scatter'd cowslips sweetly sprir^. 
By Girvan's fairy haunted stream 

The birdies flit on wanton wing. 
To Cassil'is' banks when e'ening fa's, 

Thei i wi' my Mary let me flee. 
There catch her ilka glance of love 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's ee ! 

The child wha boasts o' warld's walth, 

Is aften laird o' meikle care ; 
But Mary she is a' my ain, 

Ah, fortune canna gie me mair ! 
Then let me range by Cassillis' banks, 

Wi' her the lassie dear to me. 
Anil catch her ilka glance o' Iotq 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's ee 



NOW WESTLIN' WINDS. 
Tune — •* I had a horse, 1 had nae mair." 

Now westHn* winds, and slaughtering guns, 

Bring autumn's pleasant weather ; 
The muircock springs, on whirring wings, 

Amang the blooming heather. 
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain. 

Delights the weary farmer ; 
And the moon shine's bright, when I rove a 
night, 

To muse upon my charmer. 

The partridge loves the fruitful fells ; 

The plover loves the mountains ; 
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells ; 

The soaring hern the foimtains. 
Through lofty groves the cushat roves, 

Tlw; path of man to shun it ; 
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, 

The spreading thorn the linnet. 

Thus every kind their pleasure find, 

The savage and the tender ; 
Some social join, and leagues combine ; 

Some solitary wander : 
Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway. 

Tyrannic man's dominion ; 
The sportman's joy, the murdering cry, 

The flutt'ring, gory pinion. 

But, Peggy dear, the evening's cleai, 

Thick flies the skimming swallow ; 
The hky is blue, the fields in view. 

All fading green and yellow : 
Come let us stray our gladsome way. 

And view, the charms of nature ; 
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, 

And every happy creature. 

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, 

Till the silent moon shine clearly ; 
I'll grasp thy waist, and fondly press't, 

And swear I love thee dearly. 
Not vernal showers to budding flowers. 

Not autumn to the farmer, 
So dear can be as thou to me, 

My fair, my lovely charmer ! 



OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN 
BLAW. 

Tune—" Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey." 

I COMPOSED this song out of compliment tc 
Mrs. Burns. It was during the honey-moon. 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west, 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lass that I loe best : 
Tho' wild woods grow, and rivers row, 

Wi' mony a hill betwot i. 







;| 216 BURNS 


' WORKS 




BaJth day awl night my fancy's flight 


Some sair o* comfort still at last. 




1 h ever wi' my Jean. 


When a* thir days are dune, man— 
My pains o' hell on earth is past. 




I see her in the dewy flow'r, 


I'm sure o' heaven aboon, man. 




Sae lovely, sweet, and fair ; 


0, ay my wife, Sec. 




I hear her voice in ilka bird, 






Wi' music charm the air : 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs, 










By fountain, shaw, or green, 
Nor yet a bonnie bird that sings, 


BOX>'IE WAS YON ROSY BRIER 




But minds me o' my Jeau. 


BoyyiE was yon rosy brier. 




Upon the banks o' flowing Clyde 

The lasses busk them braw ; 
But when their best they hae put on. 


That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man ; 
And bonnie she, and ah ! how dear ! 
It shaded frae the e'enin' sun. 




My Jeanie dings them a' ; 
In hamely weeds she far exceeds 

The fairest o' the tow. ; 
Baith sage and gay amitst it sae, 

Tho' drest in russet gown. 

I 


Yon rosebuds in the morning dew 

How pure, amang the leaves sae green ; 

But purer was the lover's vow 

They witness'd in their shade yestreen. 

All in its rude and prickly bower. 




1 The gamesome lamb, that sucks its dim, 


That crimson rose, how sweet and fair ! 




1 Mair harmless canna l>e ; 


But love is far a sweeter flower 




i She has nae faut. (if sic ye ca't), 


Amid life's thorny path o' care. 




Except her love for me : 






The sparkling dew, o' clearest hue. 


The pathless wild, and wimpling bum. 




Is like her shining een ; 


Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 




In shape and air, nane can compare 


And I the world, nor wish, nor scorn. 




Wi' my sweet lovely Jean. 


Its joys and griefe alike resign. 




blaw, ye westlin winds, blaw saft 
Amang the leafy trees; 










Wi' gentle gale, frae muir and dale. 






Bring hame the laden bees. 


0, FOR AXE AND TWENTY, TAM. 




And bring the lassie back to me 
That's aye sae neat and clean ; 


Tune—" The Moudiewort." 




Ae blink o' ber waii banish care. 


An' 0, fiT ane and twenty. Tarn 1 




Sae lovely is my Jean. 


An hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tam I 
rU learn thy kin a rattling sang. 




What sighs and vows amang the knowes, 


A7i' I saw ane and twenty, Tam! 




Hae past atween us twa ! 






How fain to meet, how wae to part 


They snool me sair, and hiud me down, 




That day she gaed awa ! 


And gar me look like Bluntie, Tam ! 




The powers aboon can only ken, 


But three short years will soon wheel roan*} 




To whom the heart is seen, 


And then comes ane and twenty, Tam ! 




That nane can be sae dear to me 


An 0,for, A-c. 




As my sweet lovely Jean. 


A gleib o' Ian*, a claut o' gear, 

Was left me by my auntie, Tam ; 
At kith or kin I need na' spier. 










An' I saw ane and twentv, Tam. 




0, AY MY WIFE SHE DANG ME. 


An 0,for, Ac. 




[ Ti*n^ — " 0, ay my Wife she dang mc" 


The}'!! hae me we<l a wealthy coot. 




0, ay my wife she dang me, 
_4n<f aft my wife she banged me 1 
'■ If y^ i/''« o u-i'man a' her tciiU 
' Gude faith, she'll soon owergang y» 


Tiio' I mysel hae pleutj-, Tam ; 
But hears't thou, laddie, there's my loa^ 
I'm tliine at ane and twenty, Tam ! 
An' 0,for, §-c 




On peace and rest my mind was bent. 






And, fool I was, I marrie.1 • 






Bit never honest man's intent 






As curstilly miscarribd I 






0, ay my wife, ire 

t 




1 






J 



1 



SONGa 



217 



off, GIN MY LOVE WERE YON RED 
ROSE. 

TuTU-^" Hughie Graham." 

Oh, gin my love were yon red rose 

That grows upoa the castle wa', 
And I mysell a dap o' dew, 

Into her bonnie breast to fa' ! 
Oh, there, beyond expression blest, 

I'd feast on beauty a' the nicht ; 
Seated on her silk-saft faulds to rest, 

Till fleyed awa by Phoebus' licht. 

ADDITIONAL STANZA BY BURNS. 

O, WERE my love yon lilac fair, 

Wi* purple blossoms to the spring ; 
And I a bird to shelter there. 

When wearied on my little wing ; 
How I wad mourn when it was torn 

By autumn wild, and winter rude ! 
How I wad sing on wanton wing, 

When youthfu' May its bloom renewed. 



OH, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD 
BLAST. 

Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast, 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea ; 
My plaidie to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee : 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, 
Thy bield should be my bosom, 

To share it a', to share it a*. 

Or were I in the wildest waste, 

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, 
The desert were a paradise, 

If thou wert there, if thou wert there. 
Or were I monarch of the globe. 

With thee to reign, with thee to reign ; 
The brightest jewel in ray crown 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 



O LEAVE NOVELLRS, YE MAUCHLINE 
BELLES. 

A FRAGMENT. 
Tune—" Donald Blue." 

O LEAVE novelles, ye INlauchline belles, 
Ye're safer at your spinning wheel ; 

Such witching books are bailed hooks, 
For rakish rooks like Rob Mossgiel. 
Sing tal, lal, lay. 

Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, 
They make your youthful fancies reel, 



They heat your brains, and fire your veins, 
And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel. 
Sing tal, lal, lay. 

Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung ; 

A heart that warmly seeks to feel ; 
That feeling heart but acts a part, 

'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel. 
Sing tal, lal, lay. 

The frank address, the soft caress. 

Are worse than poison'd darts of steeL 

The frank address, and politesse, 
Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel. 
Sing tal, lal, lay. 



O LET ME IN THIS AE NIGHT 

Tune—" Let me in this ae night" 

O LASSIE, art thou sleeping yet. 

Or art thou wakin, I would wit, 
For love has bound me hand and foot. 
And I would fain be in, jo. 

O let me in this ae night, 

This ae, ae, ae night, 
For pity's sake this ae night, 

rise and let me in, jo. 

Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, 
Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet, 
Tak pity on my weary feet. 

And shield me frae the rain, jo. 
O let me in, §*c. 

The bitter blast that round me blaws 
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; 
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause 
Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 
O let me in, §*c. 

HER ANSWER. 

O TELL nae me o' wind and rain. 
Upbraid nae me wi' cauld disdain, 
Gae back the road ye cam again, 
I winna let you in, jo. 

I tell you now this ae night. 

This ae ae, ae night ; 
And unce "or a\ this ae night i 

1 winn> let you in, jo. 

The snellest blast at mirkest hours, 
I That round the pathless wand'rer pours. 
Is nought to what poor she endures 
That's trusted faithless man, jo. 
/ tell you now, 8fC, 

The sweetest flower that deck'd the meadf 
Now trodden like the vilest weed : 
Let simple maid the lesson read, 
The weird may be her ain, jo. 
/ tell you now, ^c 



218 



BURNS' WORKS. 



The biid that charm'd his summer-day 
Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; 
Let witless, trusting woman say 
How aft her fate's the same, jo. 
I tell you now, §*c. 



O LUVE WILL VENTURE IN. 

O LUVE will venture in, where it daur na weel 

be seen, 
O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has 

been, 
But I will down yon river rove, araang the 

wood sae green, 
And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. 

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, 

And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear. 

For she's the pink o' v/omankind, and blooms 

without a peer ; 

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I V\\ pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps 
in view. 
For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonie 

mou ; 
The hyacinth's for constancy wi' its unchanging 
blue, 
And a to be a posie to my ain dear INIay. 

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, 
And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there ; 
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air, 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 



The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o* siller 
man, it stands at break o' 



Where, like an 



day, 
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna 
tak away ; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The woodbine I will pu', when the e'ening star 

is near, 
And the diamond draps o' dew shall be her een 

sae clear ; 
The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's to 

wear -; 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band o' 

luve, 
And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by 

a' above. 
That to my latest draught o' life the band shall 

ne'er remuve. 
And this will be a posie to m> ' ain dear May. 



O MAY, THY MOHPJ. 

O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet, 
As the mirk night o' December ; 

For sparkling was the rosy wine, 
And private was the chamber : 

And dear was she I darna name, 
Bnt I will aye remember. 
And dear, ^c. 

And here's to them, that like oursel, 
Can push about the jorum ; 

And here's to them that wish us weel, 
May a' that's gude watch o'er theai ; 

And here's to them we darna tell, 
The dearest o' the quorum. 
And <>*<! to, §*c. 



ON CESSNOCK BANKS THERE LIVES 

A LASS.* 

Tvne—" If he be a butcher neat and trim."' 

On Cessnock banks there lives a lass. 
Could I describe her shape and mien ; 

The graces of her weeifar'd face, 

And the glancin' of her sparklin' e'en. 

She's fresher than the morning dawn 
When rising Phoebus first is seen, 

When dewdrops twinkle o'er the lawn ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

She's stately like yon youtliful ash. 

That grows the cowslip braes between. 

And shoots its head above each bush ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

She's spotless as the flow'ring thorn 

With flow'rs so white and leaves so greeilf 

When purest in the dewy morn ; 

An* she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

Her looks are like the sportive lamb, 

When flow'ry May adorns the scene, 
That wantons round its bleating dam ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

Her hair is like the curling mist 

That shadtfs the mountain side at e'en, 

When fluw'r-reviving rains are past ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

Her forehead's like the show'ry bow, 
When shining sunbeams intervene 

And gild the distant mountain's brow ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 



* 1 Jiis song was an early proauclion. .t was re. 
covered from tlie oral comTnunication of a lady resid 
ing at Glasgow whom the Barri irv ea^-ly life affection 
ately admired 



( 



SONGS. 



218 



Her voice Is like the ev'ning thrush 
That sings in Cessnock banks unseen, 

While his mate sits nestling in the bush ; 
An' she's t\va glancin' sparldin' e'en. 

Her lips are like the cherries ripe, 

That sunny walls from boreas screen, 

They tempt the taste and charm the sight ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

Her teeth are like a flock of sheep, 
With fleeces newly washen clean, 

That slowly mount the rising step ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

Her breath is like the fragrant breeze 
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean, 

When Phoebus sinks behind the seas ; 
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

But it's not her air, her form, her face, 
Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen, 

But the mind that shines in ev'ry grace 
An' chiefly in her sparklin' e'en 



ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY 
Tune—" O'er the hills and far awj^y." 

How can my poor heart be glad. 

When absent from my sailor lad ? 

How can I the thought forego. 

He's on the seas to meet his foe ! 

Let me wander, let me rove. 

Still my heart is with my love ; 

Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 

Are with him that's far away. 
On the seas and far away. 
On stormy seas and far atoay ; 
Nightly dreams ayid thoughts by day^ 
Are aye with him that's far away. 

When in summer's noon I faint, 
As weary flocks around me pant,- 
Haply in this scorching sun 
My sailor's thund'ring at his gun : 
Bullets, spare my only joy ! 
Bullets, spare my darling boy! 
Fate, do with me what you may, 
Spare hct him that's far away ! 

On the seas and far away, Sfc, 

At the starless midnight hour, 

When winter rules witli boundless power. 

As the storms the forests tear, 

And thunders rend the howling air, 

Listening to the doubling roar. 

Surging on the rocky shore, 

A.i T can — I weep and pray 

For his weal that's far away. 

On the seas and far away, 8fc. 



Peace, thy olive wand extend, 

And bid wild war his ravage end, 

Man with brother man to meet, 

And as a brother kindly greet. 

Then may heaven with prosperous gales 

Fill my sailor's welcome sails. 

To my arms their charge convey. 

My dear lad that's far away. 

On the seas and far away, 8fc. 



ON A BANK OF FLOWERS. 
Tune — " On a bank of flowers." 

On a bank of flowers, on a summer day, 

For summer lightly drest, 
The youthful, blooming Nelly lay, 

With love and sleep opprest ; 
When Willie, wandering through the woodi 
Who for her favour oft had sued ; 
He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushed, 

And trembled where he stood. 

Her closed eyes, like weapons sheathed. 

Were sealed in soft repose ; 
Her lips, still as she fragrant breathed, 

It richer dyed the rose. 
The springing lilie, sweetly prest, 
Wild wanton kissed her rival breast. 
He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushed, 

His bosom ill at rest. 

Her robes, light waving in the breeze, 

Her tender limbs embrace ; 
Her lovely form, her native ease. 

All harmony and grace : 
Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, 
A faltering ardent kisri he stole ; 
He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushed, 

And sighed his very soul. 

As flies the partridge from the brake. 

On fear-inspired wings ; 
So Nelly, Stirling, half awake. 

Away affrighted springs. 
But Willie followed — as he should ; 
He overtook her in the wood ; 
He vowed, he prayed, he found the maid 

Forgiving all and good ! 



OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH. 

Oh, open the door, some pity show, 

Oh, open the door to me, oh ! 
Though thou hast been false, I'll evet prow 
true, 

Oh, open the door to rae, oh ! 

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheekj 
But caulder thy love for me, oh ' 



1 


1 1 
220 BURNS WORKS. | j 


The frost that freezes the life at iny heart, 


Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet 


Is nought to my pains frae thee, oh ! 


As is a kiss o' Willie. 


The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, 


HE. 


And time is setting with me, oh ! 


Let fortune's wheel at random rin. 


False friends, false love, farewell ! for mair 


And fools may tyne, and knaves may wia^ 


I'll ne'er trouble them nor thee, oh ! 


My thoughts are a' bound upon ane, 




And that's my ain dear Philly. 


She has opcn'd the door, she has opened it wide, 




She sees his pale corse on the plain, oh ! 


SHE. 


My true love, she cried, and sunk down by his 


Wliat's a' the joys that gowd can ^e? 


side, 


I care nae wealth a single flie ; 


Never to rise again, oh ! 


The lad I love's the lad for me, 




And that's ray ain dear Willie. 


() PHILLY, HAPPY BE THAT DAY 






STAY, SWEET WARBLING W00:> 


Tune—" The sow's tail." 


LARK. 


HE. 


Tnne—" Loch-Erroch side." 


Philly, happy be that day 




When roving through the gather'd hay, 


STAY, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay, 


My youthfu* heart was stown away, 


Nor quit for me the trembling spray ! 


And by thy charms, my Pliilly. 


A hapless lover courts thy lay, 




Thv soothing fond complaining. 


SHE. 


Again, again that tender part. 


O Willie, aye I bless the grove 


That I may catch thy melting art ; 


Where first I own'd my maiden love, 


For surely that wad touch her heart, 


Whilst thou didst pledge the powers above, 


Wha kills me wi' disdaining. 


To be my ain dear Willie. 






Say, was thy little mate unkind. 


HE. 


And heai d thee as the careless wind ? 


'^s songsters of the early year 


Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd, 


Are ilka day mair sweet to hear. 


Sic notes of woe could wauken. 


So ilka day to me mair dear 


Thou tells o' never-ending care. 


And charming is my Philly. 


0' speechless grief and dark despair ; 




For pity's sake, sweet biid, nae mair ! 


SHE. 


Or my poor heart is broken ! 


As on the brier the budding rose 




Still richer breathes and fairer blows. 





So in my tender bosum grows 




The love I bear my Willie. 


WAT YE WHA'S IN Y^ON TOUN 


HE. 

The milder sun and bluer sky, 


Tune—" I'll gang nae mair to yon toun." 


That crown my harvest cares wi' joy, 


WAT ye wha's in you toun 


Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye 


Ye see the e'ening sun upon ? 


As is a sight of Philly. 


The fairest maid's in yon toun, 




That e'ening sun is shining on. 


SHE. 


Now haply down yon gay green shaw, 


The little swallow's wanton wing, 


She wanders l)y yon spreading tree ; 


Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring, 


How blest, ye flow'rs, that round her blaw 


Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring, 


Ye catch the glances o' her ee. 


As meeting o' my Willie. 


How blest, ye birds, that round her sing. 




And welcome in the blooming year ! 


HE. 


And doubly welcome be the spring. 


The bee, that thro' the sunny hour 


The season to my Jeanie dear ! 


Sips nectar in the opening flower, 




Compar'd wi' my delight is poor. 


The sun blinks blythe on yon toun, 


Upon the lips o' Philly. 


Amang yon brooniy braes sae green ; 




But my delight, in yon toun,' 


SHE. 


And dearest pleasure, is my Jean. 


The woodbine in the dewy weet 


Without my love, not a' the charma 


When e\ening shades in silence meet, 


Of Paradise could yield me joy j 



SONGS. 



H2i 



But gie me «ean e m my arms, 

An(i welcome Lapland's drearie sky. 

ftly eave wad be a lover's bower, 
Though raging winter rent the air; 

And she a lovely little flower, 
That I wad tent and shelter there. 

O sweet is she in yon toun, 

The sinking sun's gane down upon ; 
Ths dearest maid's in yon toun, 

His setting beam e'er shone upon. 
If angry fate be sworn my f »e, 

And suffering I am doom'd to bear, 
I'll careless quit aught else below ; 

But spare, oh ! spare me Jeanie dear. 
For, while life's dearest blood runs warm, 

My thoughts frae her shall ne'er depart 
For, as most lovely is her form, 

She has the truest, kindest heart. 



O WERE 1 ON PARNASSUS' HILL. 

This air is Oswald's : the song I made out 
iJ compliment to Mrs. Burns, 

were I on Parnassus' hill, 
Or had o' Helicon my fill ; 
That I might catch poetic skill, 
To sing how dear I love thee. 
But Nith maur *^ my Muse's well. 
My Muse maui. k.« thy bonnie sell ; 
On Corsincon I'll glow'r and spell. 

And write how dear I love thee. 

Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay ! 
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day, 

1 coudna sing, I coudna say, 
How much, how dear, I love thee. 
I see thee dancing o'er the gieen, 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, 
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een — 

By heaven and earth I love thee .' 

By night, by day, a-field, at hame. 
The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ; 
And ay I muse and sing thy name, 
I only live to love thee ! 
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on. 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun. 
Till my last weary sand was run ; 
'Till then, and then I love thee ! 



As dews o' simmer weeping. 
In tears the rose-bud steeping : 
O that's the lassie o' my heart. 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
O that's the queen o' womankind 
And ne'er a ane to peer hey 

If thou shalt meet a lassie 

In grace and beauty charming. 

That e'en thy chosen lassie, 

Erewhile thy breast sae warming; 
Had ne'er sic powers alarming j 
O that's, 8fc. 

If thou hadst heard her talking, 
And thy attentions plighted, 

That ilka body talking, 

But her by thee is slighted ; 
And if thou art delighted ; 
O that's, ^c. 

If thou hast met this fair one. 
When frae her thou hast parted ; 

If every other fair one 

But her, thoTi hast deserted, 
And thou art broken-hearted ; 
O that's, Sfc. 



OUT OVER THE FORTH I LOO'w 
THE NORTH. 



ro 



Out over the Forth I look to the north, 

But what is the north and its Highlands fA ne ? 

The south nor the east gie ease to my hrestt,, 
The far foreign land, or the wild rolliijjj («ea. 

But I look to the west, when I gae to »cst. 
That happy my dreams and my sluB»,bGrg raaj 
be; 

For far in the west Hves he I lo'e best^ 
The lad that is dear to my babie an^ me 



O WHA IS SHE THAT LOES ME. 

Tune—" Morag." 

O wha is she that loes me, 

And has my heart a-keeping ? 
Q sweet is she that loes me, 



PEGGY ALISON. 

Ilk care and fear, when thou art near, 

I ever mair defy them ; 
Young kings upon their hansel throne 
Are no sae blest as I am! 
I'll kiss thee yet, yet. 

An' ril kiss thee o'er again, 
An' ril kiss thee yet, yet, 
My hoimie Peggy Alison. 

When in my arms, wi' a' thy charou^ 
I clasp my countless treasure, 

I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share, 
Than sic a moment's pleasure ! 
ril kiss, Src. 



222 

And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, 
I swear I'm thine for ever ; 

And on thy lips I seal my vow, 

And break it shall I never ! 

I'll kiss, frtf. 



BURNS' WORKS. 



POWERS CELESTIAL. 

Powers celestial, whose protection 

Ever guards the virtuous fair, 
While in distant climes I wander, 

Let my Maiy be your care : 
Let her form sae fair and faultless, 

Fair and faultless cs your own j 
Let my Mai;y's kindred spirit, 

Draw your choicest influence down. 
Make the gales you waft around her, 

Soft and peaceful as her breast ; 
Breathing in the breeze that fans her, 

Sooth her bosom into rest : 
Guardian angels, O protect her, 

When in distant lands I roam ; 
To realms unknown while fate exiles me. 

Make her bosom still my home. * 



PHILLIS THE FAIR. 

Tune—" Robin Adair." 

While larks with httle wing 

Fanned the pure air, 
Tasting the breathing spring. 

Forth I did fare , 
Gay the sun's golden eye 
Peeped o'er the mountains high ; 
Such thy morn ! did I cry, 

Phillis the fair. 

In each bird's careless song 

Glad I did siiare. 
While yon wild flowers among, 

Chance led me there : 
Sweet to the opening day. 
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray; 
Such thy bloom ! did I say, 

Phillis th ■ fair. 

Down in a shady walk, 

Doves cooing were ; 
I marked the cruel hawk 

Caught in a snare ; 
So kind may fortune be ! 
Such make his destiny. 
He who wwuld injure thee, 

Phillis the fair'! 



♦ Probably written on Highland Mary, ©n the eve 
0/ the Poet's departure for the West Indies. 



PUIRTITH CAULD. 

Tune—" I had a horse." 

O, PUIRTITH cauld, and restless love. 

Ye vyreck my peace between ye ; 
Yet puirtith a' I could forgie, 
An 'twere na for my Jeauie. 

O, w;Ay should fate sic pleasure havei 

Life's dearest bands untwining 9 
Or why sae siveet a flower as love 
Depand on Fortune's shining f 

This world's wealth when I think on, 

Its pride, and a' the lave o't ; 
Fie, tie on silly coward man. 

That he should be the slave o't. 

O, why should fate, §-c. 

Her een, sae bonnie blue, betray 

How she repays my passion ; 
But prudence is her owerword aye. 

She talks of rank and fashion. 

O, why should fate, &^c, 

O, wha can prudence think upon 

And sic a lassie by him ? 
O, wha can prudence think upon, 

And sae in love as I am ^ 

O, why should fate, Sfc» 

How blest the humble cottar's lot ' 

He woos his simple dearie ; 
The sillie bogles, wealth and state. 

Can never make them eerie. 

O, tehy should fate, SfC. 



RATTLIN, ROARIN WILLIE. 

The last stanza of this song is mine ; it was 
composed out of compliment to one of the vi'or- 
ttiest fellows in the world, William Dunbar, 
Esq. Writer to the signet, Edinbuigh, and Co- 
lonel of the Crochallan corps, a club of wits 
who took that title at the time of raising the 
fencible regiments. 

O RATTLIN, roarin Willie, 

O he held to the fair, 
An' for to sell his fiddle. 

And buy some ither ware ; 
But parting wi' his fiddle. 

The saut tear blint his ee ; 
And rattlin roarin Willie, 

Ye're welcome hame to me. 

O Willie, come sell your fiddle, 

O sell your fiddle sae fine ; 
O willie come sell your fiddle, 

And buy a pint o' wine. 
If I should sell my fiddle, 

The warl' wou'd think I was mai. 
For many a runtin dav 

My fiddle and I hae had ' 



SONGS. 



223 



RAVING WINDS AROUND HER 
BLOWING. 

I COMPOSED these verses on Miss Isabella 
M'Leod of Raza, alluding to her feelings on the 
death of her sister, and the still more melancholy 
death of her sister's husband, the late Earl of 
Loudon. 

Tune-'" M'Grigor of Roro's Lament" 

Raving winds around her blowing, 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strewing, 
By a river hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella stray'd deploring. 
Farewell hours, that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure ; 
Hail ! thou gloomy night of sorrow, 
Cheerless night that knows no morrow ! 

O'er the Past too fondly pondering, 
On the hopeless Future wandering ; 
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, 
Fell despair my fancy seizes. 
Life, thou soul of every blessing. 
Load to misery most distressing ; 
Gladly how would I resign thee. 
And to dark oblivion join thee ! 



SAW YE OUGHT O' CAPTAIN GROSE. 

Tune'-" Sir John Malcolm." 

Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose ? 

Igo and ago, 
If he's among his friends or foes ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he South, or is he North ? 

Igo, and ago, 
Or drowned in the river Forth ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he slain by Highland bodies' 

Igo, and ago, 
And eaten like a wether-haggis ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he to Abram's bosom gane ? 

Igo, and ago, 
Or haudin' Sarah by the wame ? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Where'er he be, the Lord be near him ; 

Igo, and ago, 
As for the deil he daur na steer him, 

Iram, coram, dago. 

But please transmit th' inclosed letter, 

Igo, and ago, 
Which will oblige your humble debtor, 

Iram, coram, da<^o. 



So may you have auld stanes in store, 

Igo, and ago. 
The very stanes that Adam bore, 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye get in glad possession, 

Igo, and ago, 
The coins o' Satan's coronation ! 

Iram, coram, dago. 



SCROGGAM. 

There was a wife wonned in Cockpen, 

Scroggam ; 
She brewed gude ale for gentlemen : 

Sing, auld Cowl, lay ye down by me ; 

Scroggam, my dearie, Ruffum. 

The gudewife's dochter fell in a fever, 

Scroggam ; 
The priest o' the parish fell in another : 

Sing, auld Cowl, lay ye down by me ; 

Scroggam, my dearie, Ruffum. 

They laid the twa in the bed thegither, 

Scroggam, 
That the heat o' the tane might cool the toth«" 

Sing, auld Cowl, lay ye down by me ; 

Scroggam, my dearie, Ruffum, 



SHE'S FAIR AND PAUSE. 

Tune — " She's fair and fause." 

She's fair and fause that causes my smart. 

I loo'd her mickle and laog ; 
She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart. 

And I may e'en gae hang. 
A cuif cam in wi' rowth o' gear, 
And I hae tint my dearest dear ; 
But woman is but warld's gear, 

Sae let the bonnie lass gang. 

Whae'er ye be that woman love, 

To this be never blind, 
Nae ferlie 'tis though fickle she prove ; 

A woman has't by kind : 
O woman, lovely woman fair ! 
An angel's form's faun to thy share, 
'Twad been ower mickle to hae gi'en thee vcak 

I mean an angel mind. 



SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST 
OF A'. 

Tune — " Onagh's Water-fall." 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets. 
Her eyebrows of a darker hue. 



224 BURNS' 


WORKS. 


! Bewitchingly o'er-arcliing 


She has a hump upon lier breast, 


Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue. 


The twin o' that upon her shouther : 


Her smiling sae vvyling, 


Sic a wife as Willie had. 


Wad make a wretch forget his woe ; 


I wadna gie a button for her ! 


What pleasure, what treasure, 




Unto these rosy lips to grow ; 


Auld baudrons* by the ingle sits. 


1 Such was my ChIori.s' bonnie face, 


And wi' her loof her face a-washin' ; 


1 When first her bonnie face I saw, 


But Willie's wife is nae sae trig. 


And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, 


She dichts her grunyief wi' a hushion.^ 


She says she lo'es me best of a\ 


Her walie neeves,|| like midden creels; , 




Her face wad fyle the Logan Water : 


Like harmony her motion ; 


Sic a wife as Willie had. 


Her pretty ancle is a spy 


I wadna gie a button for her ! 


Betraying fair proportion, 




Wad make a saint forget the sky. 
Sae warming, sae charming, 






Her faultless form and graceful air ; 




Ilk feature — auld Nature 


STEER HER UP AND HAUD HER 


Declar'd that she could do nae mair ; 


GAUN. 


1 Hers are the willing chains o' love. 


Tune—" Steer her up." 


1 By conquering beauty's sovereign law ; 




And aye my Chloris' dearest charm. 


ST2ER her up and baud her gaim } 


She says she lo'es me best of a'. 


Her mother's at the mill, jo ; 




And gin she winna tak a man, 


Let others love the city, 


E'en let her tak her will, jo. 


And gaudy show at sunny noon ; 




Gie me the lonely valley, 


First shore her wi' a kindly kiss, 


The dewy eve, and rising moon. 


And ca' another gill, jo ; 


Fair beaming and streaming. 


And gin she tak the thing amiss, 


Her silver light the boughs amang ; 


E'en let her flyte her fill, jo. 


While falling, recalling, 




The amorous thrush concludes his sang : 


steer her up, and be na blate ; 


There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 


And gin she tak it ill, jo. 


By wimpling burn and leafy shaw. 


Then lea' the lassie to her fate, 


And hear mv vows o' truth and love, 


And time nae langer spill, jo. 


\nd say thou lo'es me best of a'. 






Ne'er break your heart for ae rdhttt. 




But think upon it still, jo, 
That gin the lassie winna do'*. 






Ye' 11 find another will, jo. 


SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. 
Tune—" Tibby Fowler." 






Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 




The place they ca'd it Linkumdoddie. 


SWEET FA'S THE EVE ON CRAIGIfi. 


Willie was a wabster gude, 


BURN. 


Could stown a clew wi' onie bodie. 


Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, 
And blythe awakes the morrow, 


He had a wife was dour and din, 


0, Tinkler Madgie was her mother ; 


But a' the pride o' spring's return 

Can yield me nocht but sorrow. ) 


Sic a wife as Willie had. 


I wadna gie a button for her : 






I see the flowers and spreading tr-es, 

I hear the wild birds singing ; 
But what a weary wight can pleas«, 


She has an ee, she has but ane, 


The cat has twa the very colour ; 


Twa rustle teeth, forhye a stump. 


And care his bosom wringing ? 


A clapper tongue wad deave a miller ; 


A whiskin' beard about her mou' ; 


Fain, fain would I my griefe irapatt, 
Yet dare na for your anger ; 


Her nose and chin they threaten ither; 


Sic a wife as Willie had, 


But secret love will break my hea-t, 


I wadna gie a button for her ! 


If I conceal it langer. 


She's bow-hough'd, she's hein-shinn'd. 


If thou refuse to pity me, 
If thou shalt love anither, 


Ae limpin' leg a hand-bread shorter ; 


She's twisted richt, she's twisted left, 




To balance fair in ilka quarter : 


♦ The cat. f Mouth. + Cushioo. || FUti. 


i 



SONGS. 



225 



When yon greeu leaves fade fiae the tree, 
Around my grave they'll wither.* 



TAM GLEN. 

My heart is a-breaking, dear tittle, 
Some counsel unto me come len', 

To anger them a' is a pity, 

But vv^hat w/?' r do \vV Tam Glen ? 

I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow, 
In poortith I might mak a fen : 

What care I in riches to wallow, 
If I maunna marry Tam Glen. 

There's Lowrie the laird o' Duraeller, 

" Gude day to you, brute," he comes ben 

He brags and he blaws o' his siller, 

But when will he dance like Tam Glen ? 

My minnie does constantly deave me. 
And bids me beware o' young men ; 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me, 
But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen ? 

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him. 
He'll gie me gude hunder marks ten : 

But, if it's ordain'd I maun tak him, 
O wha will I get like Tam Glen ? 

Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing, 
My heart to my mou gied a sten ; 

For thrice I drew ane without failing. 
And thrice it was written Tam Glen. 

The last Hallowe'en I was waukin 
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken ; 

HLs likeness cam up the house staukin, 
And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen ! 

Come counsel, dear tittie, don't tarry ; 

I'll gie you my bonuie black hen. 
Gin ye will advise me to marry 

The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. 



THE AULD MAN. 

But lately seen in gladsome green 

The woods rejoiced the day, 
Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers 

In double pride were gay : 
But now our joys are fled. 

On winter blasts awa ! 
Yet maiden May, in rich array, 

Again shall bring them a'. 



* Cragie-burn wood is situated on the banks of the 
river Mottat, tuid about three miles distant from the 
village of that name, celebrated for its medicinal wa- 
ters. The woods of Cragie-burn, and of Dumcricf, 
were at one time favourite haunts of our poet. It was 
there he met the " Lassie wi' the Imt-white locks," 
»nd that he conceived several of his beautiful lyrics. 

Q 



But my white pow, nae kindly thawe 

Shall melt the snaws of age ; 
My trunk of eild, but buss or beild, 

Sinks in time's wintry rage. 
Oh, age has weary days, 

And nights o' sleepless pain I 
Thou golden time o' youthfu* prime, 

Why comest thou not again ! 



THE BANKS O' DOON. 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; 
How can ye chant ye little birds. 

And I sae weary fu' o' care ! 
Thou'll break my heart thou warbling bird, 

That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : 
Thou minds me o' departed joys, 

Departed never to return 

Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
And ilka bird sang o' its luvo, 

And, fondly, sae did I o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
And my fause lover stole my rose, 

But ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 



THE BANKS BY CASTLE- GORDON 

Tune—'* Morag. 

Streams that glide in orient plains 
Never bound by winter's chains ; 
Glowing here on golden sands, 
There commix'd with foulest stains 
From tyranny's empurpled bands : 
These, their richly gleaming waves, 
I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; 
Give me the stream that sweetly laves 
The banks by Castle- Gordon. 

Spicy forests ever gay, 
Shading from the burning ray 
Hapless wretches sold to toil. 
Or the ruthless native's way. 
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil 
Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave, 
Give me the groves that lofty brave 
The storms, by Castle -Gordon. 

Wildly here, without control. 
Nature reigns and rules the whole ; 
In that sober pensive mood, 
Dearest to the feeling soul. 
She plants the forest, pours the flood* 
Life's poor day I'll musing rav^ 



226 



BURNS WORKS. 



Knd find at r\\crht a sheltering cave, 
Where waters flow and wild woods wave, 
By bonnie Castle-Gordon. 



And art thou come, and art thou true ? 

O welcome dear to love and me ! 
And let us all our vows renew, 

Along the flowery banks of Cree. 



THE BANKS OF THE DEVON. 

Tune—" Rhannerach dhon na chri." 

These verses were composed on a charming 
girl, a Miss Charlotte Hamilton, who is now 
niarried to James M'Kitrick Adair, Esq. phy- 
sician. She is sister to my worthy friend, Ga- 
vin Hamilton, of Mauchline ; and was born on 
the banks of Ayr, but was, at the time I wrote 
these lines, residing at Herveyston, in Clack- 
mannanshire, on the romantic banks of the little 

river Devon I first heard the air fi-om a lady 

in Inverness, and got the notes taken down for 
this work. 

How pleasant the banks of the clear winding 
Devon, 
With green spreading bushes and flow'rs 
blooming fair ! 
But the bonniest flow'r on the banks of the De- 
von, 
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the 
Ayr: 
Mild be the sun on this sweet-blushing flow'r, 

In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ; 
And gentle the fall of the soft vernal show'r, 
That steals on the evening each leaf to renew ! 



THE BARD'S SONG. 

THB bard's song IN " THE JOLLY BEGGAJ 

Tune—" Jolly mortals, fill your glawe*. 

See the smoking bowl before us, 
Mark our jovial ragged ring ! 
Round and round take up the chorus, 
And in raptures let us sing — 

A Jig for those by law protected^ 

Liberty* s a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected 
Churches built to please the priest* 

What is title what is treasure, 

What is reputation's care ? 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 

'Tis no matter how or where. 
A fig for those, SfC. 

Life is all a variorum, 

We regard not how it goc« , 
Let them cant about decorum, 

Who hav" characters to lose. 
A fig for those, §-0. 



O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes. 

With chill, hoary-wing as ye usher the dawn ! 
And fcir be thou distant, thou reptile that seizest, 

The verdure and pride of the garden or lawn ! 
Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies, 

And England triumphant display her proud 
ro^e ; 
A fairer than either adorns the green vallies,^ 

Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering 
flows. 



Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets ! 

Here's to all our wandering train! 
Here's our ragged brats and callets ! 

One and all cry out, Amen ! 
A fig for those, 8^c. 



THE BANKS OF CREE. 

Tunc—" The banks of Cree." 

Here is the glen, and here the bower, 
All underneath the birchen shade; 

The villa>,re hell has toU'd the hour, 
O, what cm st ly my lovely maid ? 

Tis not IMari.i's uhis|iering call, 

Tis but the balmy breathing gale, 
Mixt with some warbler's dying fall, 
The dewy star of eve to hail. 

It is Maria's voice I hear ! 

So calls the woodlark to the grove, 
His little faithful mate to cheer, 

At once 'tis music — and 'tis love 



THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR, 

BETWEEN THE DUKE OF ARGYLE AND THH 
EARL OF MAR. 

" O CAM ye here the fight to shun, 
Or herd the sheep wi' me, man ? 
Or were ye at the Sherra-muir, 

And did the battle see, man ?" 
I saw the battle sair and teugh. 
And reekin-red ran monie a sheugh, 
My heart for fear gae sough for sough. 
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds 
O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, 
Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man. 

The red- coat lads wi' black cockades. 
To meet them were na slaw, man ; 

They rush'd and push'd, and bluid outgush'd, 
And mony a bouk did fa', man • 

The great Argyle led on his files. 

I wat they glanced twenty iiiles J 



SONGS. sa? 


Thev liack'd ano hash'd, wWle broadswords 


Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, j 


clash'd, 


And o'er the crystal streamlets plays ; 


And thro' tliey dash'd, and hew*d and smash'd, 


Come, let us spend the lichtsome days 


Till fey men died awa, man. 


In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 




Bonnie lassie, §"e. 


But had you seen the philibegs, 




And skyrin tartan trews, man. 


While o'er their head the hazels hing, 


When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs, 


The little birdies blythely sing. 


And covenant true blues, man ; 


Or lichtly flit on wanton wing. 


Tn lines extended lang and large, 


In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 


When bayonets opposed the targe, 


Bonnie lassie, 8fc. 


And thousands hastened to the charge, 




Wi* highland wrath they frae the sheath, 


The braes ascend like lofty wa's. 


Drew blades o' death, till out o' breath, 


The foarain' stream deep -roaring fa's, 


They fled like frighted doos, man. 


O'erhung wi' fragrant spreadin' shaws, 




The Birks of Aberfeldy. 


" how deil Tam can that be true ? 


Bonnie lassie, ^c. 


The chase gaed frae the north, man ; 




I saw myself, they did pursue 


The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flow'rs, 


The horsemen back to Forth, man ; 


White ower the lin the burnie pours, 


And at Dumblane, in my ain sight. 


And, risin', weets wi' misty show'rs 


They took the biig wi' a' their might. 


The Birks of Aberfeldy. 


And straught to Stirling winged their flight ; 


Bonnie lassie, ^c. 


But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut ; 




And mony a hunted poor red-coat 


Let fortune's gifts at random flee, 


For fear amaist did swarf, man." 


They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, 




Supremely bless'd wi' love and thee, 


My sister Kate came up the gate 


In the Bilks of Aberfeldy.* 


Wi' crowdie unto me, man : 


Bonnie lassie, Sfc. 


She swoor she saw some rebels run. 




Frae Perth unto Dundee, man ; 




Their left-hand general had nae skill, 




The Angus lads had nae good will 




That day their neebor's blood to spill; 


THE BIG-BELLIED BOTTLE. 


For fear by foes, that they should lose 




Their cogs o' brose ; all crying woes, 


Tune—" Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the Tavcn 

let's fly." 


And so it goes, you see, man. 






No churchman am I, for to rail and to write ; 


They've lost some gallant gentlemen, 


No statesman or soldier, to plot or to fight ; 


Amang the Highland clans, man ; 


No sly man of business, contriving a snare ; 


I fear my Lord Panniure is slain, 


For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my care. 


Or fallen in whiggish hands, man. 




Now wad ye sing this double fight. 


The peer I don't envy — I give him his bow ; 


Some fell for wrang, and some for right ; 


I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low ; 


But mony bade the world gude-night ; 


But a club of good fellows, like those that are 


Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, 


I. 
here. 


By red claymores, and muskets, knell. 


And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. 


Wi' dying yell, the tories fell, 




And whigs to hell did flee, man.* 


Here passes the squire on his brother— his 




horse ; 




There centum -per-centum, the cit with his 
purse ; 






But see you ' the Crovn,' how it waves in the 
air! 


THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. 




There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care. 


I COMPOSED these stanzas standing under the 
Falls of Aberfeldy, at or near JMoness. 




* The chorus is borrowed from an old simple bal- 


Tune—" The Birks of Abergeldy." 


lad, called " The Birks of Abergeldy ;" of which th« 
following is a fragment. 


Bonnie lassie, will ye go, will ye go, will ye go. 


Bonnie lassie, will ye go. 


Bonnie lassie, will ye go, to the Birks of Aber- 
feldy ? 


Will ye go, will ye go, 
Bonnie lassie, will ve go 
To the birks 0* Abergeldie? 




Ye shall get a gown o' silk, 
A gown o' silk, a gown o' silk. 




• This was written about the time our bard made 


Ye shall get a gown o" silk. 
And coat of calliniankie 


his tour to the Highlands, 1787. 





228 



BURNS' W6RKS. 



The wife ot my bosom, alas ! she did die ; 
For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; 
I found that old Solomon proved it fair, 
That a big-bellied bottle's a cure for all care. 

I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 
A letter iuform'd me that all was to wreck ; 
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up 

stairs, 
With a glorious bottle, that ended my cares. 

" Life's cares they are comforts," * a maxim 

laid down 
By the bard, what d'ye call him, that woie the 

black gown ; 
And faith T agree with th' old prig to a hair. 
For a big-bt^Uicd bottle's a heaven of care. 

STANZA ADDED IN A MASON LODGE. 

Then fill up a bumper, and make it o'erflow. 
And honours masonic prepare for to throw ; 
May every true brother of the compass and 

square 
Have a big-bellied bottle when harass'd with 

care. 



/ wad wear thee in my bosom y 
Lest my jewel I should tine* 

Wishfully I look and languish, 
In that bonnie face of thine , 

And my heart it stounds wi' anguisli, 

Lest my wee thing be na mine. 

Bonnie wee thing, &^c. 

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty, 

In ae constellation shine ; 
To adore thee is my duty, 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! 
Bonnie wee thing, 8fc. 



THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE. 

I GAED a waefu* gate yestreen, 

A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue ; 
I gat my death frae twa sweet een, 

'Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue. 
'Twas not her golden ringlets bright ; 

Her lips like roses, wat wi' dew. 
Her heaving bosom, lily-white — 

It was her e'en sae bonnie blue. 

She talk'd, she smiled, my heart she wyl'd. 

She charm'd my soul I wist na how ; 
And aye the stound, the deadly wound. 

Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue. 
But spare to speak, and spare to speed ; 

She'll aiblins listen to my vow : 
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead 

To her twa een sae bonnie blue.f 



THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE. 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen. 

The flowers decayed on 'Catrine lee, * 
Nae lavVock sang on hillock green. 

But nature sicken'd on the ee. 
Thro' faded groves Maria sang, 

Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while, 
And aye the wild wood echoes rang, 

Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, 

Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair ; 
Ye birdies dumb, in withering bowers, 

Again ye'll charm the vocal air. 
But here, alas ! for me nae mair. 

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile ; 
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, 

Fareweel, fareweel ! sweet Ballochmyle ! 



THE BONNIE WEE THING. 

Composed on mj little idol, " The charm- 
ing, lovely Davies." 

Bonn'e v<e thing, cannie vjee thing, 
Lovely wee thing was thou mine ; 



* Young's Night Thoughts. 

+ The heroine of this song was Miss J. of Lochma- 
i>en. This lady, now Mrs. R. after residing some time 
in Liverpool, is settled with her huBbaJid in New York, 
tVorth America. 



THE CARL OF KELLYBURN BRAES. , 

These words are mine ; I composed them 
from the old traditionary verses. 

There lived a carl on Kellyburn braes, 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 

And he had a wife was the plague o' his days ; 
And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is 
in prime. 

Ae day as the carl gaed up the lang glen, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 

He met wi' the devil ; says, " How do yow fen?" 
And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is 
in prime. 

" I've got a bad wife, Sir ; that's a' my com 
plaint ; 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 



* Catrine, in Ayrshire, the seat of Dugald Stewart 
Esq. Professor of Moral Philosophy m ttie Universit> 
of Edinburgh. Ballochmyle, formerly the seat of Sij 
John Whitefoord, now of Alexander, Esq. 11800. 



SONGS. 



229 



For, saving your presence, to ber ye' re a saint ; 
And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is 
in prime." 

" It's neither your stot nor your staig I shall 

crave, 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wV thyme) 

But gie me your wife, man, for her I must hav§, 

And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue ia 

in prime." 

" O welcome, most kindly," the blythe carl eaid, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 

But if ye can match her, ye*re war nor ye're ca'd, 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
in prime." 

The devil has got the auld wife on his back ; 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
And, like a poor pedlar, he's carried his pack ; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
in prime. 

He's carried her hame to his ain hallan-door ; 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
Syne bade her gae in, for a bitch and a whore. 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
in prime. 

Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o' his 
band, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
Turn out on her gaurd in the clap of a hand ; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
prime. 

The carlin gaed thro' them like ony wude bear, 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 

Whae'er she gat hands on came near her nae 

mair ; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 

in prime. 

♦• A reekit wee devil looks over the wa* ; 

(Hey and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
O, help, roaster, help, or she'll ruin us a', 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
in prime." 

The devil he swore by the edge o' his knife, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 

He pitied the man that was tied to a wife-; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
in prime. 

The devil he swore by the. kirk and the bell, 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
He was not in wedlock, thank heaven, but in 
hell ; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
in prime. 

Then Satan has travelled again wi' his pack ; 
I Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi* thyme) 



And to her auld husband he's earned her back ; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue ia 
in prime. 

'* I hae been a devil the feck o' my life ; 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 
But ne'er was in hell, till I met wi' a wife ; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is 
in prime. 



THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT. 
Tune — '• Captain O' Kaine." 

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves re- 
turning ; 
The murmuring streamlet runs clear through 
the vale ; , 

The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the 
morning ; 
And wild scattered cowslips bedeck the green 
dale.. 
But what can give pleasure, or what can seem 

fair, 
When the lingerin' moments are numbered by 
care ? 
No flowers gaily springing. 
Or birds sweetly singing, 
Can sooth the sad bosom of joyless despair. 

The deed that I dared, could it merit their ma- 
lice — 
A king and a father to pRice on his throne ! 
His right are these hills, and his right are these 
valleys. 
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but 1 cac 
find none. 
But 'tis not my sufferings, thus wretched, for- 
lorn ; 
My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mour a. 
Your deeds proved so loyal 
In hot bloody trial ; 
Alas ! can I make it no better stum • 



THE DAY RETURiN^. MY BOSOM 
BURNS. 

Tune—" Seventh of Novemlier." 

The day returns, my bosom burns. 

The blissful day we twa did meet, 
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd. 

Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet; 
Than a' the pride that loads the tide, 

And crosses o'er the sultry line ; 
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes. 

Heaven gave me more, it made thee minei 

While day and night can bring delight, 
Or nature ought of pleasure give I 



230 



BURNS WORKS. 



^V^^ile joys above, ray mind can move, 
For thee, and thee alone, I live ! 

When that grim foe of life below, 
Comes in between to make us part ; 

The iron hand that breaks our band, 
It breaks my bliss — it breaks my beart. 



THE DEATH SONG. 

BcF.NE— A Field of Battle.— Time of the DAT- 
Evening.— The Wounded and Dying of the Victo- 
rious Army are supposed to join in the following 
Song : 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, 
and ye skies, 
Now gay with the bright setting sun ; 
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender 
ties, 
Our race of existence is run ! 

Thou grim King of Terrors, thou life's gloomy 
foe. 
Go, frighten the coward and slave ; 
Go teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but 
know. 
No terrors hast thou to the brave. 

rhou strikest the Hll peasant ; he sinks in the 
dark. 

Nor saves even the wreck of a name ; 
Thou strikest the young hero — a glorious mark ! 

He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 

In the proud field of honour — our swords in our 
hands, 

Our king and our country to save — 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, 

O ! who would not die with the brave ! 



THE DEIL'S AW A. Wr 

MAN. 



THE EXCISE- 



The deil cam fiddling tl .ough the toun. 

And danced awa w'" the exciseman ; 
And ilka auld wife cried, Auld Mahoun, 
I wish you lu.;K o* the prize, man. 
The deil s awa, the cleiVs awa, 

Thf deWs awa wV the exciseman ; 
He's ianced awa, he's danced awa, 
He's danced awa wi' the exciseman ! 

We'll -nak our maut, we'll brew our drink. 
We U laugh, sing, and rejoice, man ; 

A.ufl mony braw thanks to the meikle black deil, 
That danced awa wi' the exciseman I 
The deiVs awa, Sfc. 

There's threesome reels, there's foursome re 's, 
There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; 



But the ae best dance e .r cam to tne heel^ 
Was, The deil's awa wi' the excsiemaa. 
The deil's awa, §-c. 



THE ELECTION. 
Tune—" Fy, let us a' to the bndaL* 

Fy, let us a' to Kirkcudbright, 
For there will be bickering there. 

For Murray's light horse are to muster i 
jLnd oh, how the heroes will swear I 

And there will be JMurray commander, 
And Gordon the batttle to win : 

Like brithers they'll stand by each othei, 
Sae knit in alliance and sin. 
Fy, let us a', §"c. 

And there will be black-nebbed Jol^nnie. 

The tongue of the trump to them a* ; 
If he get na hell for his haddin*, 

The deil gets nae justice ava ! 
Fy, let us a', Sfc. 

And there will be Templeton's birkie, 
A boy no sae black at the bane ; 

But, as to his fine Nabob fortune. 
We'll e'en let the subject alane. 
Fy, let us a', ^-c. 

And there will be Wigton's new sherifiF; 

Dame Justice fu' brawly has sped ; 
She's gotten the heart of a B by, 

But v/hat has become cf the head ? 
Fy, let us a', S^c. 

And there will be Cardoness' squire, 

So mighty in Cardoness' eyes ; 
A wight that will weather damnation, 

For the devil the prey will despise. 
Fy, let us a', 8fc. 

And there will be Douglasses doughty, 
New christening towns far and near; 

Abjuring their democrat doings, 
By kissing the doup of a peer 
Fy, let us a', 8fc. 

And there will be Kenmure sae generous, 
Whose honour is proof 'gainst the storm ; 

To save them frae stark reprobation, 
He lent them his name to the firm. 
Fy, let us a', 8fc. 

But we wima mention Redcastle ; 

The body, e'en let him escape : 
He'd venture the gallows for siller. 

An 'twerena the cost o' the rape. 
Fy, let us a', §-c. 

And tLere is our King's Lord Lieutenant 
Sae famed for his grateful return } 



SONGS. 



831 



The billie is getting his questions, 
To say in St. Stephen's the morn. 
Fy, let us a\ §-c. 

And there will be lads of the gospel, 
Muirhead, wha's as gude as he's true ; 

And there will be Buittle's apostle, 

Wha's mair o' the black than the blue. 
Fy, let us a, 8fc. 

And there will be folk frae St. Mary's, * 
A house o' great merit and note : 

The deil ane but honours them highly— 
The deil ane will gie them his vote. 
Fy, let us a', §*c. 

And there will be wealthy young Richard 
Dame Fortune should hing by the neck ; 

But for prodigal thriftless bestowing, 
His merit had won him respect. 
Fy, let us a', 8fc. 

And there will be rich brither Nabobs ; 

Though Nabobs, yet men o' the first : 
And there will be Colliston's whiskers. 

And Quintin, o' lads not the warst. 
Fy, let us a\ Sfc. 

And there will be Stamp-office Johnnie — 
Tak tent how you purchase a dram ; 

And there will be gay Cassencarry ; 
And there will be gleg Colonel Tam. 
Fy, let us u\ 8fc. 

And there will be trusty Kirrochtrie, 

Whase honour is ever his sa' 
If the virtues were packed in a parcel. 

His worth might be sample for a*. 
Fy, let us a\ Sfc. 

And can we forget the auld Major, 
Wha'll ne'er be forgot in the Greys? 

Our flattery we'll keep for some other ; 
Him ouly it's justice to praise. 
Fy, let us a', S^c. 

And there will be maiden Kilkerran, 
And also Barskimming's gude wight ; 

And there wfU be roaring Birtwhistle, 
Wha luckily roars in the right. 
Fy, let us a, Sfc. 

And there, irae tne Niddisdale Dorder, 
We'll mingle the Maxwells in droves, 

Teuch Jockie, stanch Geordie, and Willie, 

That granes for tne fishes and loves. 

F7/, Lr.t us a', §*c. 

And there will be Logan M'D 1 ; 

Sculduddery and he will be there ; 



And also the Scott 0' Galloway, 
Sodgering, gunpowder Blair. 
Fy, let us a', 8fc. 

Then hey ! the chaste interest 0' Broughton, 
And hey for the blessings 'twill bring ! 

It may send Balmaghie to the Commons ; 

In Sodom 'twould make him a king. 

Fy, let us a\ Sfc. 

And hey ! for the sanctified M — r — y. 
Our band wha wi' chapels has stored ; 

He foundered his horse among harlots, 
But gied the auld mare to the Lord. 
Fy, let us a', 8fc. 



THE GALLANT WEAVER. 

Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, 
By mony a flow'r and spreading tree. 
There lives a lad, the lad for me, 
He is a gallant weaver. 

Oh I had wooers aught or nine. 
They gied me rings and ribbons fine ; 
And I was fear'd my heart would tine, 
And I gied it to the weaver. 

My daddie sign'd my tocher-band 
To gie the lad that has the land, 
But to my heart I'll add my hand, 
And give it to the weaver. 

While birds rejoice in leafy bowers ; 
While bees delight in opening flowers ; 
While corn grows green in simmer showereiy 
I'll love my gallant weaver.* 



THE GARDENER WI' HIS PAIDLE. 

This air is the Gardeners' March. The title 
of the song only is old ; the rest is mine. 

When rosy May comes in wi' nowers, 

To deck her gay, green- spreading bowers, 

Then busy, busy are his hours, 
The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 

The crystal waters gently fa' ; 
The merry birds are lovers a' ; 
The scented breezes round him blaw, 
The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 

When purple morning starts the hare 
To steal upon her early fare ; 
Then thro' the dews he maun repair, 
The gard'ner wi' his paidle. 



» Meaning the family of the Earl of Selkirk, 
dent at St. Mary's Isle, near Kirkcudbright. 



» In some editions s lilur is substituted for weaver. 



_- 



232 



BURNS' WORKS. 



When (lay expiring in the west, 
The nirtain draws of nature's rest ; 
He flies to her arms he lo'es best, 
The gard'ner wi* his paidle. 



THE GLOOIMY NIGHT IS GATHER. 
ING FAST. 

Tune—" Banks of Ayr.** 

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, 
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast, 
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, 
I see it driving o'er the plain. 
The hunter now has left the moor, 
The scatter'd coveys meet secure, 
While here I wander, prest with care, 
Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 

The autumn mourns her ripening com, 
By early winter's ravage torn ; 
Across her placid azure sky 
She sees the scowling tempest fly : 
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, 
I think upon the stormy wave. 
Where many a danger I must dare. 
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

'Tis not the surging billows' roar, 
*Tis not that fatal, deadly shore ; 
Though death in every shape appear. 
The wretched have no more to fear : 
liiit round my heart the ties are bound. 
That heart transpierced with many a wound 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, 
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

Farewell old Coila's hiUs and dales, 
Her heathy moors and winding vales ; 
The scene where wretched fancy roves, 
Pursuing past, unhappy loves ! 
Farewell my friends, farewell my foes. 
My peace with these, my love with those ; 
The bursting tears ray heart declare ; 
Faiewell the bonnie banks of Ayr.* 



THE HEATHER WAS BLOOMING. 
Tune—" 1 red you beware at tlie hunting." 

The heather was blooming, the meadows were 

mawn, 
Our lads gaed a hunting, ae div at the dawn, 
O'er moors and o'er mosses ami niony a glen, 
At length they discovered a bonnie moor-hen. 



* D urns wrote this song, while convoying his chest 
»o fur on the road from Ayrsliire to (inentxik, where 
he Lr.toiideii to emharU in a few days for Jamaica He 
lietiigne I it, he says, as his farewell duge to his native 
jjountry. 



I red you beware at the hunting, young men ; 
Iredr/ou beware at the hunting, young men; 
Tak some on the wing, and some as they 

spring, 
Sut cannily steal on a bonnie moor-hen. 

Sweet brushing the dew from the brown heather 

bells. 
Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy fells ; 
Her plumage outlustred the pride o' the spring, 
And C ' as she wantoned gay on the wing. 
I red, A'c. 

Auld Phosbus himsel, as he peep'd o'er the hill ; 

In spite at her plumage he tryed his skill ; 

He levell'd his rays where she bask'd on the 

brae — 
His rays were outshone, and but mark'd where 

she lay. 

I red, §"c. 

They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill ; 
The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill ; 
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight, 
Then, whirr ! she was over, a mile at a flight.— 
I red, 8fe. 



THE HIGHLAND LASSIE, O. 

This was a composition of mine in very early 
life, before I was known at all in the world. 

Nae gentle dames, tho* ne'er sae fair, 

Sail ever be ray Muse's care ; 

Their titles a' are empty shew ; 

Gie me my Highland lassie, O. 

Within the glen sae bushy, O, 
Aboon the plain sae rashy, O, 
I set me down wV right good wiUf 
To sing my Highland lassie, O. 

were yon hills and vallies mine, 
Yon palace and yon gardens fine ! 
The world then the love should know 

1 bear my Highland lassie, O, 

Within the glen, ^c. 

But fickle fortune frowns on me. 
And I maun cross the raging sea ; 
But while my crimson currents flow, 
I'll lo'e my ""^Mand lassie, O. 
Within tie glen, §-c. 

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, 
I know her heart will never change. 
For her bosom burns with honour's glow 
My faithful Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, 8fc. 

For her I'll dare the billow's roar ; 
For her I'U trace a distant shore ; 



SONGS 



2S3 



Tliat Indian wealth mjiy lustre throw 
Around my Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, Sfc. 

She has my heart, she has my hand, 
By secret truth and honour's band ! 
'Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, 
T'ca thine, my Highland lassie, O. 

Farewell the glen, sae bushy, O, 
Farewell the plain, sae rashy, O, 
To other lands I now must go, 
To sing my Highland lassie, O. 



THE LAD THAT'S FAR AWA. 
Tune — '♦ O'er the hills and far awa." 

O, HOW can I be blithe and glad, 
Or how can I gang brisk and braw, 

When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best 
Is o'er the hills and far awa? 

It's no the frosty winter wind. 

It's no the driving drift and snaw ; 

But aye the tear comes in my ee 
To think on him that's far awa. 

My father pat me frae his door, 

ftly friends they hae disown'd me a' ; 

But I hae ane will take my part, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 

A pair o' gloves he gae to me. 

And silken snoods he gae me twa ; 

And I will wear them for his sake, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa. 

The weary winter soon will pass. 

And spring will deed the birken shaw; 

rtnd my sweet babie will be born. 
And he'll come hame that's far awa. 



THE LASS OF BALLOCHMYLE. 
Tune—" The Lass of Ballochmyle." 

TwAs even, the dewy fields were green, 

On ilka blade the pearls hang ; 
The zephyr wanton'd round the bean, 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang : 
In ev'ry glen the mavis sang ; 

All nature list'ning seem'd the while, 
Except where greenwood echoes rang, 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward stray'd. 
My heart rejoiced in Nature's joy ; 

When, musing in a lonely glade, 
A maiden fair I chanced to spy : 

Hor look was like the morning's eye, 
Uer air like Nature's vernal smile : 



The lily's jiue, and I'ose's dye, 
Bespake the lass o' Ballochmyle. 

Fair is the morn in flowery May, 

And sweet is night in Autumn mild. 
When roving through the garden gay, 

Or wand'ring in the lonely wild ; 
But woman, Nature's darling child ! 

There all ber charms she does compile; 
Even there her other works are foil'd, 

By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 

Oh, had she been a country maid, 

And I the happy country swain, 
Though shelter'd in the lowest shed 

That ever rose on Scotland's plain ! 
Through weary winter's wind and rain, 

With joy, with rapture, I would toil ; 
And nightly to my bobv«n strain 

The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 

Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep, 

Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, 

Or downward dig the Indian mine. 
Give me the cot below the pine. 

To tend the flocks, or till the soil. 
And ev'ry day have joys divine, 

Wi' the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.* 



THE LASS THAT MADE THE BED 
TO ME.f 



When Januar winds were blawin 

Unto the north I bent my way. 
The mirksome nicht did me enfauld, 

I kend na where to lodge till day 
But by good luck a lass I met, 

Just in the middle of my care, 
And kindly she did me invite 

To walk into a chamber fair. 



I bow'd fu' low unto this maid. 
And thank'd her for her courtfsie j 

I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, 
And bade her make the bed to me. 



cauld, 



* This song was written in praise of Miss Alexande* 
of Ballochmyle. Burns happened one fine evening to 
meet this young lady, when walking through the 
beautiful woods of Ballochmyle, which lie at the dis- 
tance of two miles from his farm of Mossgiel. Struck 
with a sense of her passing beauty, he wrote this noble 
lyric; which he soon after sent 'to her, enclosed in a 
letter, as full of delicate and romantic sentiment, and 
as poetical as itself. He was somewh.it mortified to 
find, that either maidenly modest, or pride of supe- 
rior station, prevented her from acknowkdging the re. 
ceipt of his compliment : Indeed it is no where record- 
ed that she, at any stage of life, shewed the smallest 
sense of it; as to her the pearls seem to have been li- 
terally thrown away. 

t There is an older and coarser son?, contair.ing tnc 
same incidents, and said to ha\ e been occasioned by an 
adventure of (.'harles II., when that monarch resided 
in Scotland with the Presbyterian army, 1650-51. The 
affair hapiiened at the hou"se of Port-T.ethern, in Aber 
deenshire, and it was a daughter of the laird that made 
the bed to the kins'. 



234 



BURNS' WORKS. 



She made the bed baith wide and braid, 
Wi' twa white hands she spread it doun ; 

She put the cup to her rosy lips, 

And drank, Young man, now sleep ye soun. 

She snatch 'd the candle in her hand, 

And from the chamber went wi' speed : 
But I ca'd her quickly back again. 

To lay some mair beneath my heid. 
A cod she laid beneath my heid, 

And served me with a due respect ; 
And, to salute her wi' a kiss, 

I put ray arms about her neck. 

Haud afF your hands, young man, she says, 

And dinna sae uncivil be ; 
It will be time to speak the morn, 

If ye hae ony love for me. 
Her hair was like the links o' gowd, 

Her teeth were like the ivorie, 
Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 

Her bosom was the driven snaw, 

Twa driftit heaps sae fair to see ; 
Her limbs the polish'd mai'ble stane, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 
I kiss'd her ower and ower again. 

And aye she wistna what to say ; 
I laid her 'tween me and the wa' ; 

The lassie tr.ocui na .ang till day. 

Upon the morrow, whtn we rase, 

I thank'd her for her courtesie ; 
And aye she blush'd, and aye she sigh'd. 

And said, Alas ! ye've ruin'd me. 
I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne, 

While the tear stood twinklin' in her ee ; 
I said, My lassie, dinna cry. 

For ye aye shall mak the bed to me. 

She took her mother's Holland sheets, 

And made them a m sarks to me ; 
Blythe and merry may she be. 

The lass that made the bed to me. 
The bonnie lass that made the bed to me, 

The braw lass that made the bed to me ; 
I'll ne'er forget, till the day I dee, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 



How long I eve liv'd — ^but how much liv'd in 

vain 
How little c/ life's scanty span may remain : 
What aspects old Time, in his progress, hae 

worn ; 
What ties cruel Fate in my bosom has torn. 
How foolish, or worse, 'till our summit is gain'd ! 
And downward, how weaken'd, how darken d, 

how paiu'd ! 
This life's not worth having with all it can give, 
For something beyond it poor man sure must 

live. 



THE LAZY MIST. 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hiii, 
Concealing the course of the dark winding rill ; 
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, ap- 
pear, 
As autumn to winter resigns the pale year. 
The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, 
And all the gay foppery of summer is flown : 
Apart let me wander, apirt let me muse. 
How quick time is flying, how keen fate pur- 
sues ; 



THE LEA-RIG. 
Tune—" The Lea-Rig." 

When o'er the hills the eastern star 

Tells buchtin-time is near, my jo ; 
And owsen frae the furrowed field 

Return sae douff and weary, O ; 
Down by the burn, where scented birks 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My am Kmd dearie, O. 

In mirkest glen, at midnicht hour, 

I'd rove and ne'er be eerie, O, 
If through that glen I gaed to thee. 

My ain kind dearie, O. 
Although the night were ne'er sae wild, 

And I were ne'er sae wearie, O, 
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O. 



THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. 

The first half stanza of this ballad is old. 

The lovely lass o' Inverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; 
For e'en and morn, she cries, alas ! 

And aye the saut tear blins her ee. 
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, 

A waefu' day it was to me ; 
For there I lost my father dear, 

My father dear and brethren three • 

Their winding sheet the bluidy clay, 

Their graves are growing green to see * 
And by them lies the dearest ad 

That ever blest a woman s ee 
Now wae to thee thou cruel lord, 

A bluidy man I trow thou oe. 
For mony a heart thou hast made da\r, 

That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee \ 



SONGS. 



235 



THc x^OVER'S MORNING SALUTE 
TO HIS MISTRESS. 

Tune—" Deil tak the wars." 

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature ? 

Rosy morn now lifts his eye, 
Numbering ilka bud which nature 

Waters wi' the tears o' joy : 

Now through the leafy woods, 

And by the reeking floods ; 
Wild Nature's tenants, freely, gladly stray ; 

The liatwhite in his bower 

Chants o'er the breathing flower : 

The lav' rock to the sky 

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, 
While the sun and thou arise to bless the day.* 
Phcebus gilding the brow o' morning 

Banishes ilka darksome shade. 
Nature gladdening and adorning ; 

Such to me my lovely maid. 
When absent frae my fair, 

The murky shades o' care 
With starless 'gloom o'ercast my sullen sky ; 

But when in beauty's light. 

She meets my ravish'd sight, 

When through my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart ; 
Tis then I wake to life, to light and joy. f 



THE RIGS O' BARLEY. 

Tune — " Corn- Rigs are bonnie. ' 

It was upon a Lammas night, 

When corn-rigs are bonnie, 
Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I held awa to Annie. 
The time flew by wi' tentless heed, 

'Till, 'tween the late and early, 
Wi' sma' persuasion shee agreed 

To see me through the bai'ley. 

The sky was blue, the wind was still, 

The moon was shining clearly ; 
I set her down, wi' right good -will, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 
I ken't ker heart was a' mv ain ; 

I loved her most sincerely ; 
I kiss'd her ower and ower again, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 



I lock'd her in my fond embrace ! 

Her heart was beating rarelv— 
My blessings on that happy place, 

Amang the rigs o' barley ! 
But by the moon and stars so bright, 

That shone that hour sae clearly ! 
She aye shall bless that happy night, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

I hae been blythe wi' comi'ades dear ; 

I hae been merry drinking ; 
I hae been joyfu' gathering gear ; 

I hae been happy thinking : 
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 

Though they were doubled fairly, 
That happy night was worth them a' 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 



» Variation. Now to the streaming foun ain. 

Or up the heathy mountain 
The hart, hind, and roe, freely, wildly-wanton stray ; 

In twining hazel bowers 

His lay the linnet pours: 

The lav 'rock, &c. 

f Variation. When frae my ChToris parted. 
Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted. 
Then nighfs gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o'ercast 
my sky ; 
But when she charms my sight, 
In pride of beauty's light. 
When thro' my very heart 
Her beaming glories dart ; 
Tlf then, 'tis then 1 wake to life and joy. 



THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. 
Tune—" The MUI, Mill, O." 

When wild war's deadly blast was blawil^ 

And gentle peace returning. 
And eyes again wi' pleasure beam'd, 

That had been blear'd wi' mourning J 
I left the lines and tented field. 

Where lang I'd been a lodger ; 
My humble knapsack a' my wealth ; 

A poor but honest sodger. 

A leal light heart beat in my breast, 

My hands unstain'd wi' plunder ; 
And for fair Scotia hame again, 

I cheery on did wander. 
I thought upon the banks o' Coil, 

I thought upon my Nancys 
I thought upon the witching smile, 

That caught my youthful fancy. 

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen. 

Where early life I sported ; 
I pass'd the mill and trysting thorn, 

Where Nancy oft I courted. 
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, 

Down by her mother's dwelling ? 
And turn'd me round to hide the flood 

That in my ee was swelling. 

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass. 

Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, 
O ! happy, happy may he be, 

That's dearest to thy bosom ! 
My purse is light, I've far to gang, 

And fain wad be thy lodger ; 
I've serv'd my king and country lang 

Tak pity on a sodger. 

Sae wistfully she gazed on me, 
And lovelier grew than ever ; 

Quoth she, A sodgei ance I loved, 
Forget him will I never. 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Onr humble cot and hamely fare. 

Ye freely shall partake o't ; 
That gallant badge, the dear cockade, 

Ye'ie welcome for the sake o't. 

She gazed — she redden'd like a rose- 
Syne pale as ony lily ; 

She sank within ray arms, and cried, 
Art thou my ain dear Willie? 

By Him, who made yon sun and skv. 
By whom true love's regarded ; 

I am the man ! and thus may still 
True lovers be rewarded. 

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame. 

And find thee still true-hearted ; 
Though poor in gear, we're rich in love, 

And mair we'se ne'er be parted. 
Quoth she, My grandsire left me gowd, 

A niailin plenish'd fairly ; 
Then come, ray faithfu' sodger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly. 

For gold the merchant ploughs the main, 

The farmer ploughs the manor ; 
But glory is the sodger's prize, 

The sodger's wealth is honour. 
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise, 

Nor count him as a stranger : 
Remember he's his country's stay. 

In day and hour o' danger. * 



THE BANKS OF NITH. 

Tune—" Robie Donna Gorach." 

The Thames flows proudly to the sea, 

Where royal cities stand ; 
But sweeter flows the Nith to me, 

Where Cummins ance had high command : 
When shall I hee that honoured land, 

That winding stream I love so dear J 
Must wayward fortune's adverse hand 

For ever, ever keep me here. 

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales^ 

Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom ; 
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales 

Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom ! 
Tho wandering, now, must be my doom. 

Far from thy boonie banks and braes, 
May there my latest hours consume, 

Amang the friends of early days ! 



* " Burns, I have been informed," savs a clergyman 
of Dumfriesshire, in a letter to Mr. George Thomson, 
editor of Select Melodies of Scotlanfl, " was one sum- 
mer evening in the inn at Brownhill, with a couple of 
friends, when a poor way-worn soldier passed the win- 
dow. Of a sudden it struck the poer to call him in, 
and get the recital of his adventures; after hearnig 
which, he all at o ce fell into one of those fits of ab. 
straction, not unusual to him. He was lifted to the 
region where he had his garland and his singing-roBes 
about him, and the result was this admirable song he 
%ent you lor • The Mill, Mill, O.' " 



THE TOAST. 

At a meeting of the Dumfriesshire Volunteer* 
held to commemorate the anniversary of Rodney's 
victory, April 12th, 1782, Burns was called upon foi 
a Song, instead of which he delivered the following 
Lines : — 

Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast. 
Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that 

we lost ; — 
That we lost, did I say, nay, by heav'n ! that 

we found. 
For their fame it shall last while the world goes 

round. 
The next in succession, I'll give you the King, 
Whoe'er would betray him on high may he 

swing ; 
And here's the grand fabric, our free Consti- 
tution, 
As built on the base of the great Revolution ; 
And longer with Politics not to be cramra'd. 
Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd ; 
And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloval. 
May his son be a hangman, and he his first trial. 



THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL 
JAMIE COMES HAME. 

This tune is sometimes called, There s few 
gude FtUowH when Willie's awa. — But I never 
have been able to meet with any thing else of 
the song than the title. 



Tune- 



-" There'll never be peace till Jamie conies 
hame." 



By yon castle-wa', at the close o' the day, 

I heard a man sing, though his head it was 

grey; 
And, as he was singing, the tears down came— 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars. 
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars : 
We daurna weel 3ay't, but we ken wha's to 

blame, — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, 
And now I greet round their green beds in the 

yird : 
It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld 

dame — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

Now life is a burden that bows me down, 
Since I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown ; 
But till my last moments my words are the 

same, — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes name 



SONGS. 



237 



THE STOWN GLA>^CE O' KINDNESS. 
Tune — " Laddie, lie near me." 

*TwAs na her bonnle blue ee was my ruin ; 
Fair though she be, that was ne'er my undoin' : 
*Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 
'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' 
kindness. 

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me ; 
But though fell fortune should fate us to sever, 
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. 

Mary, I'm thine wl' a passion sincerest. 
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest ! 
Ana thou'rt the angel that never can alter ; 
Sooner the sun in his motion shall falter. 



THERE'S NEWS, LASSES. 

There's news, lasses, news, 
Gude news hae I to tell ; 

There's a boat fu' o' lads 
Come to our toun to sell. 

The wean wants a cradle, 
And the cradle wants a cod; 

A.nd ril no ga.ng to my Led, 
Until I get a nod. 

Father, quo' she, IMother, quo' she, 

Do ye what ye can, 
I'll no gang to my bed 

Till I get a man. 

The wean, &fc. 

I hae as gude a craft-rig 
As made o' yird and stane ; 

And waly fa' the ley crap, 
For I maun till't again. 
The wean, 8fc. 



THE YOm^G HIGHLAND ROVER. 
Tune—" Morag." 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes. 

The snaws the mountains cover ; 
Like winter on me seizes, 

Since my young highland rover 

Far wanders nations over. 
Where'er be go, where'er he stray. 

May heaven be his warden : 
Return him safe to fair Strathspey, 

And bonnie Castle- Gordon! 

The trees now naked groaning. 
Shall soon wi' leaves be Irrging, 



The birdies dowie moaning, 
Shall a' be blythely singing, 
And every flower be springiug- 

Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day, 
When by his mighty warden 

My youth's returned to fair Strathspey, 
And bonnie Castle- Gordop.* 



THE WOODLARK. 

Tune — " Where'U bonnie Annie lie." 

Or, " Loch-Erroch Side." 

O STAY, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay, 
Nor quit for me the trembling spray, 
A helpless lover courts thy lay, 
Thy soothing fond complaining. 

Again, again that tender part, 
That I may catch thy melting art ; 
For surely that wad touch her heart, 
Wha kills me wi' disdaining. 

Say, was thy little mate unkind, 
And heard thee as the careless wind ? 
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd, 
Sic notes o' woe could wauken. 

Thou tells o' never-ending care ; 
O speechless grief, and dark despair ■ 
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair? 
Or rn^ poor heart is broken ! 



THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CIT^ 

There's a youth in this city, it were a grea* 
pity 
That he from our lasses shorld wander awa ; 
For he's bonnie and braw, weel-favour'd with a' 

And his hair has a natural buckle and a'. 
His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue ; 

His fecket f is white as the new-driven snaw ; 
His hose they are blae, and his shoon like the 
slae, 
And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a.' 
His coat is the hue, Sfc. 

For beauty and fortune the laddie's been courtin ; 
Weel-featur'd, weel-tocher'd, weel mounted 
and braw ; 
But chiefly the siller, that gars him gang till 'ner 

The pennie's the jewel that beautifies a'. — 
There's Meg wi' the mailin, that fain wad a 
haen him, 
And Susy whase daddy was Laird o' the ha ; 



» The young Highland rover is supposed to be th 
young Chevalier, Prince Charles Edward, 
f All under-waistcoat with sleeves. 



1 


238 BURNS' 


WORKS. 


There's lang-tocher'd Nancy maist fetters his 


But weel the watching lover marks 


fancy, 


The kind love that's in her ee. 


— But the laddie's dear sel he lo'es dearest of a*. 


this is no my ain lassie, §c. 


His coat is the hue, 8^c. 




THE TOCHER FOR ME. 


THERE WAS ONCE A DAY 


Tune—" Balinamona Ora." 


Tune-'" Caledonian Hunt's Delight,* 


AwA wi' yo\ir witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, 


There was once a day, but old Time then was 


The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arras ; 


young. 


O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, 


That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, 


0, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. 


From some of your northern deities sprung. 


The7i he?/ for a lass zvi' a tocher, then he]/ for 


(Who knows not that brave Caledonia's di- 


a lass wi' a tocher. 


vine ?) 


Tlien hey for a lass ivV a tocher ; the nice 


From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, 


yellow guineas for me. 


To hunt, or to pasture, or to do what she 




would : 


Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that 


Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign. 


blows, 


And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant 


And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; 


it good. 


But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green 




knowes. 


A lambkin in peace, but a lion in wai-. 


Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white 


The pride of her kindred the heroine grew i 


yovves. 


Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore, — 


Then hey, §-c. 


" Whoe'er shall provoke thee th* encounter 




shall rue !" 


And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest, 


With tillage or pasture at times she would sport. 


The brightest o' beauty may cloy, when possest ; 


To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling 


But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie im- 


corn ; 


prest, 


But chiefly the woods were here fav'rite resort. 


The langer ye hae them — the mair they're ca- 


Her darling amusement, the hounds and the 


rest. 


horn. 


Then hey, §-c. 






Long quiet she reigned ; 'till thitherward steers 
A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand :* 
Repeated, successive, for many long years, 








They darken'd the air, and they plundered 


THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE. 


the land : 




Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry, 


I SEE a form, I see a face, 


They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside : 


Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : 


She took to her hills and her arrows let fly, 


It wants, to me, the witching grace. 


The daring invaders they fled or they died. 


The kind love that's in her ee. 




this is no my ain lassie, 


The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north, 


Fair thour^h the lassie be ; 


The scourge of the seas, and the dread of 


O weel ken I my ain lassie, 


the shore ;f 


Kind love is in her ee. 


The wild Scandinavian boar issued forth 




To wanton in carnage, and waDow in gore :^ 


She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall. 


O'er countries and kingdoms their fury pre- 


And lang has had my heart in thrall ; 


vail'd, 


And aye it charms my very saul, 


No arts could ippease them, nor arms could 


The kind love that's in her ee. 


repel ; 


this is no my ain lassie, Sfc. 


But brave Caledouia in vain they assail'd, 




As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie 


A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 


tell.§ 


To steal a blink, by a' unseen ; 




But gleg as light are lover's een. 


The Cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose. 


When kind love is in the ee. 


With tumult, disquiet, rebellion and strife ; 


this is no my ain lassie, §*c. 
It may escape the courtly sparks. 




* The Romans, t The Saxons, t The Danes. 
^ Two famous battles, in whicli the Danes or N-o» 


't may escape the learned clerks ; 


wegians were defeated. 


J 



SONGS. 



23S 



Provoked beyond bearing, at xdst she arose, 
And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his 
life:* 
The Anglian lion, the terror of France, 

Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's sil- 
ver flood ; 
But taught by the bright Caledonian lance, 
He learned to fear in his own native wood. 

Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd and free, 

Her bright course of glory for ever shall run : 
For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; 

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun : 
Rectangle triangle, the figure we'll choose, 

The upright is Chance, and old Time is the 
base; 
But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse ; 

Then ergo she'll match them, and match 
them always, t 



THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER, JAMIE. 
Tune—" Fee him. Father." 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, 

Thou hast left me ever ; 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, 

Thou hast left me ever. 
Aften hast thou vow'd that death 

Only should us sever ; 
Now thou'st left thy lass for aye — 

I maun see thee never, Jamie, 
I'll see thee never. 



Thou hast me foi'saken, Jamie, 

Thou hast me forsaken ; 
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, 

Thou hast me forsaken. 
Thou canst love another jo. 

While my heart is breaking : 
Soon my weary een I'll close, 

Never more to waken, Jamie, 
Never more to waken. 



TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY. 

THIS SONG I COMPOSED ABOUT THE AGE OF 
SEVENTEEN. 

Tune—" Invercald's reel. 

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day 
Ye wadna been sae shy ; 
For lath o' gear ye lightly me, 
Sut trowth, 1 care na by. 



* The Highlanders of the Isles. 

t This singular figure of poetry, taken from the 
mathematics, refers to the famous proposition of Py- 
thagoras, the 47th of Euclid. In a risht-angled tri- 
angle, the s(juare of the hypothenuse is always equal 
to the souares of the two other sides. 



Yestreen I met you on the moor, 
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure ; 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor, 
But feint a hair care I. 
Tibbie, I hae, S^c. 

T doubt na, lass, but ye may think, 

Because ye hae the name 0' clink. 

That ye can please me at a wink. 

Whene'er ye like to try. 

Tibbie, I hae, Sfc. 

But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, 
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy quean 
That looks sae proud and high. 
Tibbie, I hae, §-c. 

Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart. 
If that he want the yellow dirt, 
Ye'll cast your head anither airt. 
An' answer him fu' dry. 
Tibbie, I hae, Sfc. 

But if he hae the name o' gear, 
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, 
Tho' hardly he for sense or lear 
Be better than the kye. 
Tibbie, I hae, §-c. 

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice. 
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nicSy 
The deil a ane wad speir your price, 
Were ye as poor as I. 
Tibbie, I hae, §-c. 

There lives a lass in yonder park, 
I wouldna gie her in her sark 
For thee wi' a' thy thousand mai'k j 
Ye need na look sae high. 
Tibbie, I hae, 8fc. 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 

Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, 

That lov'st to greet the early mcrn ! 
Again thou usher'st in the day, 

]My Mary from my soul was torn. 
Oh, Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy pliu-e of blissful rest ? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast f 

Tbat sacred hour can I forget? — 

Can I forget the hallow'd grove, 
Wheie, by the winding Ayr, we met, 

To live one day of parting love .' 
Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past ; 
Thy image at our last embrace; — 

Ah i little thought we 'twas our last ! 



240 



BURNS' WORKS, 



AjT, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild womls thickening green ; 
The fragrant birch, the hawthorn hoar, 

Twined amorous round the raptured scene. 
The flowers sprung wanton to be prest, 

The birds sung love on every spray ; 
Till too, too soon the glowing west 

Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, 

And fondly broods with miser care ; 
Time bnt the impression stronger makes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear 
My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
See'st thou lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?' 



TRUE HEARTED WAS HE. 

Tune-'" Bonnie Dundee." 

FauE hearted was he, the sad swain o' the 
Yarrow, 
And fair are the maids on the banks o' the 
Ayr, 
But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding 
river. 
Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair ; 
lo equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over : 

To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain, 
Grace, beauty and elegance fetter her lover, 
And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 

O fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning. 

And sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie, 

Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring ; 

Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law : 
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger. 

Her modest demeanour's the jewel of a'. 



WANDERING WILLIE. 
Tune — " Here awa, there awa." 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willk ! 

Here awa, there awa, hand awa hame I 
Come to 7117/ bosom, my ain ody dearie ; 

Ttll me thou bring^st me my Widie again. 

Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our part- 
ing ; 
Feari for my Willie brought tears in my ee : 
Welcome now, summer, and welcome, my Willie ; 
The summer to nature, and Willie to me. 
Here, awa, Sfc. 



Rest, ye wild storms, in the cavei of your •lum 

bers ! 
How your dread howling a lover alarms! 
Wauken, ye breezes ! row gently, ye billows ! 
And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms 
Here awa, ^c. 

But, oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, 
Flow still between us, thou dark l^eaving main ! 

May I never see it, may I never trow it. 

But, dying, believe that my Willie's ray ain ! 
Here awa, 8fc. 



* To Mary Campbell, one of Burns's earliest and 
-nost beloved mistresses, a dairy-maid in the neigh- 
bourhood of Mossgiel.— See farther particulars in tlie 
Life 



WAE IS MY HEART. 

Wae 18 my heart, and the tear's in my ee ; 
Lang, lang joy's been a stranger to me : 
Forsaken and friendless my burden I bear, 
And the sweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in ray ear. 

Love thou hast pleasures ; and deep hae I loved ; 
Love thou hast sorrows ; and sair hae I proved : 
But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my 

breast, - 
I can feel by its throbbings will soon be at rest, 

O if I were, where happy I hae been ; 
Down by yon stream and yon bonnie castle green : 
For there he is wand'ring and musing on me, 
Wha wad soon dry tha tear frae his Phillis's ee 



WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO 
Wr AN AULD MAN. 

What can a young lassie, what shall a yor.ng 
lassie, 
What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man ? 
Bad luck on the pennie that tempted my minnie 
To sell her poor Jenny tor siller an' Ian' ! 
Had luck on the pennie, §t. 

He's always compleenin frae mornin to e'enin, 
He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang, 

He's doy'lt and he's dozin, his bluid it is frozen, 
O' dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! 
Bad luck on the pennie, §-c. 

He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers ; 

I never can please him, do a' that I can ; 
He's peevish, and jealous of a' the young fellows, 

O, dool on the day, I met wi' an auld man ! 
Bad luck on the pennie, ^c. 

]My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, 
I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; 
I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart- 
break him, 
And then his auld brass will buy me a new paa 
Bad luck on the pennie^ §-c. 



SONGS. 



241 



WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOft. 

This tune is also known by the name of Lass 
An I come near thee. The words are mine. 



Wha is that at my bcJvrer door ? 

O wha is it but Findlay ; — 
Then gae your gate ye'se nae be here ! 

Indeed maun I, quo' Findlay. 
What mak ye sae like a thief? 

O come and see, quo' Findlay ; — 
Before the morn ye'll work mischief j 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 

Gif I rise and let you in ? 

Let me in, quo' Findlay ; — 
Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 
In my bower if ye should stay ? 

Let me stay, quo' Findlay ; — 
I fear ye'll bide till break o' day ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 

Here this night if ye remain ? 

I'll remain, quo' Fiadlay ; — 
I dread ye'll learn the gate again j 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay ; 
What may pass within this bower; 

Let it pass, quo' Findlay ; — 
Ye maun conceal 'till your last hour ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay ! 



WHEN GUILDFORD GOOD: 

A FRAGMENT. 

Killicrankie. 



When Guildford good our pilot stood, 

And did our helm thraw, man, 
Ae night, at tea, began a plea, 

Within America, man : 
Then up they gat the maskin-pat, 

And in the sea did jaw, man ; 
An' did nae less, in full Congress, 

Than quite refuse our law, man. 

Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes, 

I wat he was na slaw, man : 
Down JLowrie's burn he took a turn, 

And Carleton did ca', man : 
But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec, 

Montgomery-like did fa', man ; 
Wi' sword in hand, before his band, 

Amang his enemies a', man. 

Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage, 
Was kept at lioston ha', man ; 

Till Willie Hoive took o'er the knowe 
For Philadelphia, man : 

Wi' sword an* gun he thought a sin 
Guid CSristiac blood to draw, mao ; 



But at Ne<^- York, wi' knife and fork, 
Sir-loin he hacked sma', man. 

Burg9yne gaed jp, like spur an' whip> 

Till Fraser brave did fa* man ; 
Then lost his way, ae misty day, 

In Saratoga shaw, man. 
Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought, 

An' did the buckskins claw, man ; 
But Clintons glaive frae rust to save, 

He hung it to the wa', man. 

Then Montague, an' Guildford too, 

Began to fear a fa', man ; 
And Sackville doure, wha stood the stoure, 

The German chief to thraw, man : 
For Paddy Burke, like onie Turk, 

Nae mercy had at a', man ; 
An' Charlie Fox threw by the box. 

An' lows'd bis tinkler jaw, man. 

Then Rockingham took up the game ; 

Till death did on him ca', man ; 
When Shelburne meek held up his cheek; 

Conform to gospel law, man. 
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise. 

They did his measures thraw, man, 
For North and Fox united stocks, 

And bote him to the wa*, man. 

Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's cartcsi 

He swept the stakes awa', man. 
Till the diamond's ace of Indian race, 

Led him a ■s.iw faux pas, man : 
The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads, 

On Chatham's boy did ca*, man ; 
And Scotland drew her pipe, an' blew, 

" Up, Willie, waur them a', man !" 

Behind the throne then Grenville's gone, 

A secret word or twa, man ; 
While slee Dundas arous'd the class 

Be-north the Roman wa', man : 
An* Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graitb, 

(Inspired bardies saw, man) 
Wi* kindling eyes, cry'd, " Willie, rise ! 

Would I ha'e fear'd them a', man ?" 

But word an' blow, North, For, and C©. 

Gow*^'d Willie like a ba', man, 
Till Suthrons raise, and coost their chite 

Behind him in a raw, man ; 
Au' Caledon threw by the drone. 

An' did her whittle draw, mao ; 
An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt and blood 

To make it guid in law, man*. 



242 



BURNS' WORKS. 



WHERE ARE THE JOYS I HAE MET 
IN THE MORNING. 

Tune—" Saw ye my father." 

Where are the joys I hae met in the morning. 
That dance- 1 to the lark's early song ? 

Where is the peace that awaited my wandering. 
At evening the wild woods among ? 

No more a-winding the course of yon river, 
And marking sweet flow'rets so fair ; 

No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure, 
But sorrow and sad-sighing care. 

Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, 

And gi im surly winter is near ? 
No, no, the bees humming round the gay roses, 

Proclaim it the pride of the year. 

Fain would I hide what I fear to discover. 
Yet long, long too well have I known : 

All that has caused this wreck in my bosom, 
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal. 
Nor Hope dare a comfort bestow : 

Come then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish, 
Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe. 



WHISTLE AND I'LL COME TO YOU, 
MY LAD. 

O whistle and Fll come to you, my lad*, 
O whistle and I'll come to you, my lad ; 
Tho" father and mither and a' shoidd gae mad, 
O whistle and Fll come to you, my lad. 

But warily tent when ye come to court me, 
And come nae unless the back-yett be ajee ; 
Syne up the back style, and let nae body see, 
And come as ye were nae comin' to me. 
And come as ye were nae comin' to me. 
O whistle, §'c. 

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me. 
Gang by me as tho' that ye cared nae a flie ; 
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'ee, 
Yet look as ye were nae lookin' at me. 
Yet look as ye were nae lookin' at me. 
O whistle, 8fc. 

Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, 
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; 
But court nae anither, tho' jokin ye be, 
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. 
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. 
O whistle, 8fc. 



* In some of the MSS. the first four lines run thus : 
O whistle and I'll come to thee, my jo, 
O whistle and I'll come to thee, my jo; 
Tho' father and mother and a' should say no, 
O whistle and I'll come to thee, my jo. 



WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT 

This air is Masterton's ; the song mine.— . 
The occasion of it was this : — Mr. Wm. NicoJ, 
of the High School, Edinburgh, during the ak- 
tumn vacation, being at Moffat, honest Allan, 
who was at that time on a visit to Dalswinton, 

and I went to pay Nicol a visit We had such 

a joyous meeting, that Mr. Masterton and I 
agreed, each in our own way, that we should 
celebrate the business. 

O Willie brew'd peck o' maut. 

And Rob and Allan cam to see ; 
Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night, 
Ye wad na find in Christendie. 

We are na fou, we're na that fou. 

But just a drappie in our ee ; 
The cock may craw, the day may daw 
And ay we'll ta-'ie the barley bree. 

Here are we met, tkree merry boys. 
Three merry boys I trou are we ; 

And mony a night we've merry been. 

And mony mae we hope to be ! 

We are na fou, §"c. 

It is the moon, I ken her horn, 

That's blinkin in the lift sae hie , 
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame. 

But by my sooth she'll wait a we ! 
We are na fou, Sj-c. 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa', 

A cuckold, coward loun is he ! 
Wha last beside his chair shall fa*. 

He is the king amang us three ! 
We are na fou, §*c. 



WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE. 

Tune—" The Sutor's Dochter." 

Wilt thou be my dearie : 

When sorrow wrings thy gelitle heai^ 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee : 

By the treasure of my soul, 

That's the love I bear thee ! 

I swear and vow that only thou 

ShAll ever be my dearie. 

Only thou, I swear and vow. 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou lo'es me ; 
Or if thou wilt na be my ain, 
Say na thou'lt refuse me ; 
If it winna, canna be. 
Thou for thine may choose m^ 
Let me, lassie, quickly die. 
Trusting that thou lo'es me ; 
Lassie let me quickly die. 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



SONGS. 



243 



WILL YE GO TO THE INDIES, MY 
MARY? 

Tune—" The Yowe-buchts." 

\ViLL ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 

And leave auld Scotia's shore ? 
Will ye go the Indies, ray Mary, 

Across the Atlantic's roar ? 

Oh, sweet grow the lime and the orange, 

And the apple on the pine ; 
But a' the charms o' the Indies 

Can never equal thine. 

I hae sworn by the heavens, my Mary, 
I hae sworn by the heavens to be true ; 

And sae may the heavens forget me. 
When I forget my vow ! 

O, plight me your faith, my Mary, 
And plight me your lily-white hand ; 

O, plight me your faith, my Mary, 
Before I leave Scotia's strand. 

We hae plighted our troth, my Maryi 

In mutual aifection to join ; 
And curst be the cause that shall part us ! 

The hour and the moment o' time ! • • 



YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. 

Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide, 
That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the 

Clyde, 
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the 

heather to feed. 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on 

his reed : 

Where the grouse, Sfc. 

Not Gowrie*s rich valley, nor Forth's sunny 

shores, 
To me hae the charms o' yon wild, mossy moors ; 
For there, by a lanely, and sequester'd stream, 
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my 

dream. 

For there, 8fc. 

Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my 

path. 
Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow 

strath ; 
For there, wi' ray lassie, the day lang I rove. 
While o'er us unheeded, flie the swift hours o' 

love. 

For there, 8fc. 



* When Bums was designing his voyage to the 
West Indies, he wrote this song as a farewell to a girl 
whom he happened to regard, at the time, with con- 
siderable admiration. He afterwards sent it to Mr. 
Thomson for publication in his splendid collection of 
the national music and musical poetry of Scotland. 



She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair ; 
O* nice education but sma' is her share ; 
Her parentage humble as humble can be ; 
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es ma 
Her parentage, Sfc. 

To beauty what man but maun yield him a 

prize. 
In her armour of glances, and blushes, and 

sighs ; 
And when wit and refinement hae polished her 

darts. 
They dazzle our een, as they flie to our hearts. 
A.nd when wit, §"c. 

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond spark- 
ling e'e, 

Has lustre outshining the diamond to me ; 

And the heart-beating love, as I'm clasp'd ic 
her arms, 

O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms ' 
And the heart-beating, §*c 



YOUNG JOCKEY. 
J%ne—" Jockie was the blythest ltd.** 

Young Jockey was the blithest lad 

In a' our town or here awa ; 
Fu' blithe he whistled at the gaud, 

Fu' lightly danc'd he in the ha' ! 
He roos'd my e'en sae bonnie blue. 

He roos'd my waist sae genty sma ; 
An* ay my heart came to my mou, 

When ne'er a body heard or saw. 

My Jockey toils upon the plain, 

Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and snaw 
And o'er the lee I leuk fu' fain 

When Jockey's owsen hameward ca*. 
An' ay the night comes round again, 

When in his arms he taks me a' ; 
An' ay he vows he'll be my ain 

As lang's he has a breath to draw. 



YOUNG PEGGY 

Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lasB, 

Her blush is like the morning. 
The rosy dawn, the springing grass, 

With eai ly gems adorning : 
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams 

That gild the passing shower. 
And glitter o'er the crystal streams, 

And cheer each fresh'ning flower. 

Her lips more than the cherries bright 
A richer die has grac'd them, 

Th«y charm th' admiring gazer's sight 
And sweetly tempt to taste them : 



2^ 



BUitiNS' \VORKS. 



Her smile is as the ev'ning mild, 
When feather'd pairs are courting, 

And little lambkins wanton wild, 
In playful bands disporting. 

Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe, 

Such sweetness would relent her. 
As blooming spring unbends the brow 

Of surly, savage winter. 
Detraction's eye no aim can gain 

Her winning pow'rs to lessen : 
iLad fretful envy grins in vain. 

The poison'd tool h to fasten. 



Ye pow'rs of Honour, Love, and Trai&» 

From ev'ry ill defend her ; 
Inspire the highly favour'd yout\i 

The destinies intend her ; 
Still fan the sweet connubial flame 

Responsive in each bosom ; 
And bless the dear parental name 

With many a filial blossom.* 



♦ This was one of the poefs earliest composition*. 
It is conied from a MS. book, which he had before hif 
first publicatioo. 



THE CORRESPONDENCE. 



NOTICE. 



Of the following letters of Burns, a consid- 
trable number were transmitted for publication, 
by the individuals to whom they were addressed ; 
out very few have been printed entire. It will 
sasily be believed, that in a series of letters writ- 
ten without the least view to publication, va- 
rious passages were found unfit for the press, 
from different considerations. It will also be 
readily supposed, that our Poet, writing nearly 
at the same time, and under the same feelings 
to different individuals, would sometimes fall 
into the same train of sentiment and forms of 
expression. . To avoid, therefore, the tedious- 
ness of such repetitions, it has been found ne- 
cessary to mutilate many of the individual let- 
ters, and sometimes t j exscind parts of great 
delicacy — the unbridled effusions of panegyric 
and regard. But though many of the letters 
are printed from originals furnished by the per- 
sons to whom they were addressed, others are 
printed from first draughts, or sketches, found 
among the papers of our Bard. Though in ge- 
neral no man committed his thoughts to his 
corres«pondents with less consideration or effort 
than Burns, yet it appears that in some instances 
he was dissatisfied with his first essays, and 
wrote out his communications in a fairer cha- 
racter, or perhaps in more studied language. 
In the chaos of his manuscripts, some of the 
original sketches were found ; and as these 
sketches, though less perfect, are fairly to be 
considered as the offspring of his mind, where 
they have seemed in themselves worthy of a 
place in this volume, and they have been in- 
serted, though they may not always correspond 
exactly with the letters transmitted, which have 
been lost or withheld. 

Our author appears at one time to have form- 
ed an intention of making a collection of his 
letters for the amusement of a friend. Accord- 
ingly he copied an inconsiderable number of 
them into a hook, which he presented to Ro- 
bert Riddel, of Glenriddel, Esq. Among these 
was the account of his life, addressed to Dr. 
Moore, and printed in the Life. In copying 
from his imperfect sketches (it does not appear 
that he had the letters actually sent to his cor- 
"espondents before him) he seems to have occa- 



sionally enlarged his observations, and altereiJ 
his expressions. In such instances his emenda- 
tions have been adopted ; but in truth there are 
but five of the letters thus selected by the poet, 
to be found in the present volume, the rest be- 
ing thought of inferior merit, or otherwise unfit 
for the public eye. 

In printing this volume, the Editor has found 
some corrections of grammar necessary ; but 
these have been very few, and such as may be 
supposed to occur in the careless effusions, even 
of literary characters, who have not been in the 
habit of carrying their compositions to the press. 
These corrections have never been extended to 
any habitual modes of expression of the Poet, 
even where his phraseology may seem to violate 
the delicacies of taste ; or the idiom of our lan- 
guage, which he wrote in general with great 
accuracy. Some difference will indeed be found 
in this respect in his earlier and in his later 
compositions ; and this volume will exhibit the 
progress of his style, as well as the history of 
his mind. In this Edition, several new letters 
were introduced not in Dr. Currie's Edition, 
and which have been taken from the works of 
Cromek and the more recent publishers. The 
series commences with the Bard's Love Letters 
— the first four being of that description. They 
were omitted from Dr. Currie's Edition : why, 
has not been explained. They have been held 
to be sufficiently interesting to be here inserted. 
He states the issue of the courtship in these terms : 
— " To crown my distresses, a belle fiUe whom I 
adored, and who had pledged her soul to meet me 
in the field of matrimony, jilted me with pecu- 
liar circumstances of mortification." Mr. Lock- 
hart remarks of the letters: — " They are surely 
as well worth preserving, as many in the Col- 
lection; particularly when their early date is 
considered." — He then quotes from them large- 
ly, and adds, — " In such excellent English did 
Burns woo his country maidens, in at most his 
20th year." But we suspect the fault of the 
English was, that it was too good. It was too 
coldly correct to suit the taste of the fair maiden ; 
had the weoer used a sprinkling of his native 
tongue, with a deeper infusion of his constitution- 
al enthusiasm, he might have had more success- 



LETTERS, &c. 



LOVE LETTERS. 

No. 1. 
(written about the tear 1780.) 

1 VERILY believe, ray dear Eliza, that the pure 
genuine feehngs of love, are as rare in the 
world as the pure genuine principles of virtue 
ind piety. This, 1 hope, will account for the 
ancoramon style of all my letters to you. By 
aneomraon, I mean, their being written in such 
I serious manner, which, to tell you the truth, 
las made me often afraid lest you should take 
ne for a zealous bigot, who conversed with his 
Distress as he would converse with his minis- 
er. I don't know how it is, my dear ; for 
hough, except your company, there is nothing 
m earth that gives me so much pleasure as 
writing to you, yet it never gives me those 
tiddy raptures so much talked of among lovers. 
1 have often thought, thatif a well-grounded af- 
fection be not really a part of virtue, 'tis some- 
tJiing extremely a-kin to it. Whenever the 
thought of my Eliza warms my heart, every 
fpseling of humanity, every principle of genero- 
«{;>/, kindles in my breast. It extinguishes every 
^l"ty spark of malice and envy, which are but 
too apt to infest me. I grasp every creature 
in the arms of universal benevolence, and equal- 
ly participate in the pleasures of the happy, and 
sympathise with the miseries of the unfortunate. 
I assure you, my dear, I often look up to the 
divine Disposer of events, with an eye of gra- 
titude for the blessing which I hope he intends 
tc bestow on me, in bestowmg you. I sincere- 
ly wish that he may bless my endeavours to 
make your life as comfortable and happy as 
possible, both in sweetening the rougher parts 
of my natural temper, and bettering the un- 
kindly circumstances of ray fortune. This, ray 
dear, is a passion, at least in my view, worthy 
of a man, and I will add, worthy of a Chris- 
tian. The sordid earth-worm may profess love 
to a woman's person, whilst, in reality, his af- 
fection is centered in her pocket ; and the sla- 
vish drudge may go a-wooing as he goes to the 
oorse-market, to choose one who is stout and 
firm, and, as we may say of an old horse, one 
who will be a good drudge and draw kindly, 
disfiain their lirty, pi'-'y ideas, I would be 



heartily out of humour with myself, if 1 thougs 
I were capable of having so poor a notion Ot 
the sex, which were designed to crown the 
pleasures of society. Poor dev'l« ! I don't envy 
them their happiness who have such notions 
For my part, 1 propose quite other pleasures 
with my dear partner. *..... 



No. II. 
TO THE SAME. 

MY DEAR ELIZA, 

I DO not remember in the course of your ac 
quaintance and mine, ever to have heard youi 
opinion on the ordinary way of falling in love, 
amongst people of our station of life : r do not 
mean the persons who proceed in the way of 
bargain, but those whose affection is reaUy pla^- 
ced on the person. 

Though I be, as you know very well, but a 
very awkward lover myself, yet as I havi; some 
opportunities of observing the conduct of others 
who are much better skilled in the affair of 
courtship than I am, I often think it is owing 
to lucky chance more than to good manage- 
ment, that there are not more unhappy mar- 
riages than usually are. 

It is natural for a young fellow to like the 
acquaintance of >ihe females, and customary for 
him to keep them company when occasion serves ; 
some one of them is more agreeable to him than 
the rest ; there is something, he knows not 
what, pleases him, h knows not how, in her 
company. This I take to be what is called love 
with the greatest part of us, and I must own, 
my dear Eliza, it is a hard game such a one as 
you have to play when you meet with such a 
lover. You cannot refuse but he is sincere, and 
yet though you use him ever so favourably, per- 
haps in a few months, or at farthest in a year 
or two, the same unaccountable fancy may make 
him as distractedly fond of anot'ner, whilst you 
are quite forgot. I am aware, that perhaps the 
next time I have the pleasure of seeing you, you 
may bid me take my own lessou home, and tell 
me that the passion I have piofessed for you is 
perhaps one of those transient flashes I have 



248 



BURNS' WORKSS. 



been describing ; but I hope, my dear Eliza, 
you will do me the justice to believe me, when 
I assure you, that the love I have for you is 
fouuded on the sacred principles of virtue and 
aonour, and by consequence, so long as you con- 
tic'jf possessed of those amiable qualities which 
first inspired my passion for you, so long must I 
continue to love you. Believe me, my dear, it 
is love like this alone which can render the mar- 
ri»'d state happy. People may talk of flames and 
raptures as long as they please ; and a warm 
fancy with a flow of youthful spirits, may make 
them feel something like whai, '■^"v describe ; 
but sure I am, the nobler faculties of the mind, 
with kindred feelings of the heart, can only be 
the foundation of friendship, and it has always 
been my opinion, that the married life was only 
friendship in a more exalted degree. 

If you will be so good as to grant my wishes, 
and it should please providence to spare us to 
the latest periods of life, I can look forward 
and see, that even then, though bent down 
with wrinkled age ; even then, when all other 
worldly circumstances will be indifferent to me, 
I will regard my Eliza with the tenderest af- 
fection, and for this plain reason, because she 
is still possessed of those noble qualities, im- 
proved to a much higher degree, which first 
inspired my affection for her. 

" O '. "".f^v state, when souls each other draw, 
" When love is liberty, and nature law." 

T know, were I to speak in such a style to 
many a girl who thinks herself possessed of no 
small share of sense, she would think it ridi- 
culous — but the language of the heart is, my 
dear Eliza, the only courtship I shall ever use 
to you. 

When I look over what I have written, I am 
sensible it is vastly dilferent from the ordinary 
style of courtship — but I shall make no apolo- 
gy— I know your good nature will excuse what 
vouf good sense may see amiss. 



No. III. 
TO THE SAAIE. 

MT DEAR ELIZA, 

1 HAVE often thought it a peculiarly un- 
lucky circumstance in love, that though, in 
every other situation in life, telling the truth is 
not only the safest, but actually by far the easi- 
est way of proceeding, a lover is never under 
greater difficulty in acting, or more puzzled for 
expression, than when his passion is sincere, 
and his intentions are honourable. 1 do not 
think that it is very difficult for a person of or- 
dinary capacity to talk of love and fondness, 
which are not felt, and to make vows of con- 
stancy and fidelity, which are never intended to 



be performed, if he be villain enough to prac- 
tise such detestable conduct : but to a ma- 
whose heart glows with the principles of in« 
tegrity and truth ; and who sincerely loves a 
woman of amiable person, uncommon refinement 
of sentiment, and purity of manners — to such a 
one, in such circumstances, I can assure you, 
my dear, from my own feelings at this present 
moment, courtship is a task indeed. There is 
such a number of foreboding fears, and distrust- 
ful anxieties crowd into my mind when I am in 
your company, or when I sit down to write to 
you, that what to speak or what to write I am 
altogether at a loss. 

There is one rule which I have hitherto prac- 
tised, and which I shall invariably keep with 
you, and that is, honestly to tell you the plain 
truth. There is something so mean and un- 
manly in the arts of dissimulation and falsehood, 
that I am surprised they can be used by any one 
in so noble, so generous a passion as virtuous 
love. No, my dear Eliza, I shall never endea- 
vour to gain your favour by such detestable 
practices. If you will be so good and so gener- 
ous as to admit me for your partner, your com- 
panion, your bosom friend through life ; there 
is nothing on this side of eternity shall give me 
greater transport ; but I shall never think of 
purchasing your hand by any arts unworthy of 
a man, and I will add of a Christian. There is 
one thing, my dear, which I earnestly request of 
you, and it is this ; that you would soon either 
put an end to my hopes by a peremptory refusal, 
or cure me of my fears by a generous consent. 

It would oblige me much if you would send 
me a line or two when convenient. I shall on- 
ly add further, .that if a behaviour regulated 
(though perhaps but very imperfectly) by the 
rules of honour and virtue, if a heart devoted to 
love and esteem you, and an earnest endeavour 
to promote your happiness ; and if these are 
qualities you would wish in a friend, in a hus- 
band ; I hope you shall ever find them in yoiir 
real friend and sincere lover. 



No. IV. 



TO THE SAME. 

I ODCHT in good manners to have acknow- 
ledged the receipt of your letter before this time, 
but my heart was so shocked with the contents 
of it, that I can scarcely yet coilect my thoughts 
so as to write to you on the subject. I will not 
attempt to describe what I felt on receiving your 
letter. I read it over and over, again and again, 
and though it was in the politest language of re- 
fusal, still it was peremptory ; " you were sorry 
you could not make me a return, but j'ou wish 
me" what, without you, I never can obtain, 
" you wish me all kind of happiness. " It would 
be weak and unmanly to say, that without you I 
never can be happy ; but sure I am that sliar 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



mg life with you, would have given it a relish, 
that, wanting you, I never can taste. 

Your uncommon personal advantages, and 
your superior good sense, do not §o much strike 
me ; these, possibly iu a few instances, may be 
met with in others ; but that amiable goodness, 
that tender feminine softness, that endearing 
sweetness of disposition, with all the charming 
oftspring of a warm feeling heart — these I never 
again expect to meet with in such a degree in 
this world. All these charming qualities, heigh- 
tened by an education much beyond any thing 
I have ever met with in any woman I ever dar- 
ed to approach, have made an impression on my 
heart that I do not think the world can ever ef- 
face. My imagination has fondly flattered itself 
with a wish, I dare not say it ever reached a 
hope, that possibly I might one day call you 
mine. I had formed the most delightful images, 
and my fancy fondly brooded over them ; but 
now I am wretched for the loss of what I really 
had no right expect. I must now think no 
more of you as a mistress, still I presume to ask 
to be admitted as a friend. As such I wish to 
be allowed to wait on you, and as I expect to 
remove in a few days a little farther off, and you, 
I suppose, will perhaps soon leave this place, I 
wish to see you or hear from you soon ; and if 
an expression should perhaps escape me rather 
too warm for friendship, I hope you will pardon 

it in, my dear Miss , (pardon me the dear 

expression for once. ) ...... 



LETTERS, 1783, 1784. 

No. V. 
TO MR. JOHN MURDOCH, 

SCHOOLMASTER, 
STAPLES INN BUILDINGS, LONDON. 

DEAR SIR, Lochlee, \bth January, 1783. 

As I have an opportunity of sending you a 
letter, without putting you to that expense 
which any production of mine would but ill re- 
pay, I embrace it vvith pleasure, to tell you that 
I have not forgotten, nor ever will forget, the 
many obligations I lie under to your kindness 
and friendship. 

I do not doubt. Sir, but you will wish to 
know what has been the result of all the pains 
of an indulgent father, and a masterly teacher ; 
and I wish I could gratify your curiosity with 
such a recital as you would be pleased with ; 
but that is what I am afraid will not be the case. 
I have, indeed, kept pretty clear of vicious ha- 
bits ; and in this respect, I hope, my conduct 
will not disgrace the education I have gotten ; 
but as a man of the world, I am most miserably 
deficient. — One would have thought, that bred 
as I have been, under a fdther who has figured 



pretty well as un homme Jes affaires, 1 might 
have been what the world calls a pushing, ac- 
tive fellow ; but, to tell you the truth. Sir, 
there is hard4y any thing more my reverse. I 
seem to be one sent into the world to see, and 
observe ; and I very easily compound with the 
knave who tricks me of my money, if there be 
iny thing original about him which shows me 
human nature in a different light from any thing 
I have seen before. In short, the joy of my 
heart is to " study men, their manners, and theii 
ways ;" and for this darling subject, I cheer- 
fully sacrifice every other consideration. I am 
quite indolent about those great concerns that 
set the bustling busy sons of care agog ; and if 
I have to answer for the present hour, I am very 
easy with regard to any thing further. Even 
the last, worst shift* of the unfortunate and 
the wretched, does not much terrify me : I know 
that even then my talent for what country folks 
call " a sensible crack," when once it is sancti- 
fied by a hoary head, would procure me so much 
esteem, that even then — I would learn to be 
happy. However, I am under no apprehensions 
about that ; for, though indolent, yet, so far as 
an extremely delicate constitution permits, J am 
not lazy ; and in many things, especially in ta- 
vern matters, I am a strict economist ; not in- 
deed for the sake of the money, but one of the 
principal parts in my composition is a kind of 
pride of stomach, and I scorn to fear the face of 
any man living : above every thing, I abhor as 
hell, the idea of sneaking in a corner to avoid a 
dun — possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, who 
:n my heart I despise and detest. *Tis this, and 
this alone, that endears economy to me. In the 
matter of books, indeed, I am very profuse. My 
favourite authors are of the sentimental kind, 
such as Shenstone, particularly his Ehqics ,• 
Thomson ; Man of Feeling, a book I prize next 
to the Bible; Man of the World; Sterne, 
especially his Sentimental Jour nei/ ; Macpher- 
son's Ossian, 8fc. These are the glorious mo- 
dels afte: which I endeavour to form my con- 
duct ; and 'tis mcogruous, 'tis absurd, to sup- 
pose that the man whose mind glows with sen- 
timents lightened up at their sacred flame — the 
man whose heart distends with benevolence to 
all the human race — he " who can soar above 
this little scene of things," can he descend to 
mind the paltry concerns abcv*^ which the terrRC- 
filial race fret, and fume, and vex themselves ? 

how the glorious triumph swells my heart ! 

1 forget that I am a poor insignificant devil, un- 
noticed and unknown, stalking up and down 
fairs and markets, when I happen to be in them, 
reading a page or two of mankind, and " catch- 
ing the manners living as they vise," whilst the 
men of business jostle me on every side as an 
idle encumbrance in their way. — But I dare say 
I have by this time tired your patience ; so 
shall conclude with begging you to give Mr& 



* The last shift alluded to here, must be the cond. 
ion of an itinerant begaar 

R2 



230 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Murdoch — not iny compliments, for that is a 
mere coinmon-placv^ story, but — my warmest, 
kindest w ishes for hsr welfare ; and accept of 
the same for yourself, from, 

Dear Sir, 

Youi's, &c. 



No VI. 



[the following is taken from the MS. 

PROSE PRESENTED BY OUR BARD TO MR. 
RIDDEL.] 

On rummaging over some old papers, I light- 
ed on a MS. of my early years, in which I had 
determined to write myself out, as I was placed 
by fortune among a class of men to whom my 
ideas would have been nonsense. I had meant 
that the book should have lain by me, in the 
x\nd hope that, some time or other, even after I 
Wc>s no more, my thoughts would fall into the 
hv n:^s of somebody capable of appreciating their 
valae. It sets off thus : 

Observations, Hints, Songs, Scraps of Poe- 
try, 8^c. by R. B. — a man who had little art in 
making money, and still less in keeping it ; but 
was, however, a man of some sense, and a great 
deal of honesty, and unbounded good-will to 
I I every creature, rational and irrational. As he 
vvas but little indebted to scholastic education, 
and bred at a plough-tail, his performances must 
be strongly tinctured with his unpolished rustic 
way of life ; but as I believe they are really his 
own, it may be some entertainment to a curious 
observer of human nature, to see how a plough- 
man thinks and feels, under the pressure of love, 
ambition^ ansiety, grief, with the like cares and 
passionS; which, however diversified by the 
'^iioO's and manners of life, operate pretty much 
Sfiike, I believe, on all the species. 

" There are numbers in the world who do 
not want sense to make a figure, so Tnuch as an 
opinion of their own abilities, to put them upon 
recording their observations, and allowing them 
the same importance which they do to those 
which appear in print." — Shenstone. 

" Pleasing, when youth is long expired, to trace 
The forms our pencil, or our pen designed ! 

Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face, 
Such the soft image of our youthful mind." 

Ibid. 

April, 1783. 
Notwithstanding all that has been said against 
love, respecting the folly and weakness it leads 
a young inexperienced mind into ; still I think it 
in a great measure deserves the highest enco- 
miums that have been passed on it. If any 
thing on earth deserves the name of rapture or 
transport, it is the feelings of green eighteen, in 
'€&e compaiy of the mistress of his heart, wiiz-u 



she repays him with an equal return of 
tion. 



.4ugust. 
There is certainly some connection between 
love, and music, and poetry ; and, therefore, 1 
have always thought a fine toucl of nature, that 
passage in a modern love composition : 

" As tow'rd her cot, he jogg'd along, 
Her name was frequent in his song." 

For my own part, I never had the least 
thought or inclination of turning poet, till I got 
once heartily in love ; and then rhyme and song 
were, in a manner, the spontaneous language of 
my heart, 

September. 
I entirely agree with that judicious philoso- 
pher, Mr. Smith, in his excellent Theory of 
Moral Sentime?its, that remorse is the most 
painful sentiment that can embitter the human 
bosom. Any ordinary pitch of fortitude may 
bear up tolerably well, under those calamities, 
in the procurement of which we ourselves have 
had no hand ; but when our follies or crimes 
have made us miserable and wretched, to bear 
up with manly firmness, and at the same time 
have a proper penitential sense of our miscon- 
duct, is a glorious effort of self-command. 

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, 
That press the soul, or wring the mind with an- 
guish, 
Beyond comparison the worst are those 
That to our folly or our guilt we owe. 
In every other circumstance, the mind 
Has this to say — " It was no deed of mine j" 
But when to all the evil of misfortune 
This sting is added — " Blame thy foolish self!" 
Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse ; 
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt—- 
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others 
The young, the innocent, who fondly loved us. 
Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin ! 
O burning hell ! in all thy store of torments, 
There's not a keener lash ! 
Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart 
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, 
Can reason down its agonizing throbs ; 
And, after proper purpose of amendment, 
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace ^ 
O, happy ! happy ! enviable man ! 
O glorious magnanimity of soul. 



Mat:h, 1784. 

I have often observed, in the course of my 

experience of human life, that every man, even 

the worst, has something good about him ; 

tliough v>ry often nothing else than a happy 



CORR£F,PONDENCE. 



251 



temperament cf constitution inclining him to 
this or that virtue. For this reason, no man 
can say in what degree any other person, be- 
sides himself, can be, with strict justice, called 
wicked. Let any of the strictest character for 
regularity of conduct among us, examine im- 
partially how many vices he has never been 
guilty of, not from any care or vigilance, but 
for want of opportunity, or some accidental cir- 
cumstance intervening ; how many of the weak- 
nesses of mankind he has escaped, because he 
was out of the line of such temptation ; and, 
what often, if not always weighs more than ali 
the rest, how much he is indebted to the world's 
good opinion, because the world does not know 
all : I say, any man who can thus think, will 
scan the failings, nay, the faults and crimes, of 
mankind around him, with a brother's eye. 

I have often courted the acquaintance of 
that part of mankind commonly known by the 
ifdinary phrase of blackguards, sometimes far- 
ther than was consistent with the safety of my 
character ; those who, by thoughtless prodiga- 
lity or headstrong passions, have beea driven 
to ruin. Though disgraced by follies, nay, 
sometimes " stained with guilt, .... 
. . . ,'* I have yet found among them, 
in not a few instances, some of the noblest vir- 
tues, magnanimity, generosity, disinterested 
friendship, and even modesty. 



April, 
As I am what the men of the world, if they 
knew such a man, would call a whimsical mor- 
tal, I have various sources of pleasure and en- 
joyment, which are, in a manner, peculiar to 
myself, or some here and there such other out- 
of-the-way person. Such is the peculiar plea- 
sure I take in the season of winter, moi'e than 
the rest of the year. This, I believe, may be 
partly owing to my misfortunes giving my 
mind a melancholy cast : but there is some- 
thing even in the 

" Mighty tempest, and the hoary waste 
Abrupt and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried 
earth," — 

which raises the mind to a serious sublimity, 
favourable to every thing great and noble. 
There is scarcely any eai thly object gives me 
more — I do not know if I should call it plea- 
sure — but something which exalts me, some- 
thing which enraptures me — than to walk in 
the sheltered side of the wood, or high planta- 
tion, in a cloudy winter-day, and hear the 
stormy wind howling among the trees, and 
raving over the plain. It is my best season 
for devotion : my mind is wrapt up in a kind 



just after a train of misfortunes, I composed 
the following : 

The wintry west extends his blast, &c. 
See Songs. 

Shenstone finely observes, that love-verses, 
writ without any real passion, are the most 
nauseous of all conceits ; and I have often 
thought that no man can be a proper critic of 
love-composition, except he himself, in one or 
more instances, have been a warm votary of 
this passion. As I have been all along a 
miserable dupe to love, and have been led into 
a thousand weaknesses and follies by it, for 
that reason I put the more confidence in my 
critical skill, in distinguishing foppery, and con- 
ceit, from real passion and natiie. Whether 
the following song will stand the test, I will 
not pretend to say, because it is my own ; only 
I can say it was at the time, genuine from the 
heart. 



Behind you hills, 8ic. 



See Songs. 



I think the whole species of young men may 
be naturally enough divided into two grand 
classes, which I shall call the grave and the 
merry ; though, by the bye, these terms do not 
with propriety enough express my ideas. The 
grave I shall cast into the usual division of 
those who are goaded on by the love of money, 
and those whose darling wish is to make a 
figure in the world. The merry are, the men 
of pleasure of all denominations ; the jovial 
lads, who have too much fire and spirit to have 
any settled rule of action ; but without much 
deliberation, follow the strong impulses of na- 
ture ; the thoughtless, the careless, the indo- 
lent — in particular he, who, with a happy 
sweetness of natural temper, and a cheerful va- 
cancy of thought, steals through life — generally, 
indeed, in poverty and obscurity; but poverty 
and obscurity are only evils to him who can 
sit gravely down and make a repining compa- 
rison between his own situation and that of 
others ; and lastly to grace the quorum, such 
are, generally, those heads are capable of all 
the towerings of genius, and whose hearts are 
warmed with all the delicacy of feeling. 



As the grand end of human life is to cultivate 
an intercourse with that Being to whom we 
ewe life, with every enjoyment that can render 
life delightful ; and to maintain an integritive 
conduct towards our fellow-creatures ; that so, 
by forming piety and virtue into habit, we may 
be fit members for that society of the pious and 
the good, which reason and revelation teach us 
of enthusiasm to Him, who, in the pompous j to expect beyond the grave: I do not see thai 
language of the Hebrew bard, " walks on the j the turn of mind, and pursuits of any son of po. 
wings of the wind.' In on j of these sea«r^».s 1 verty and obscurit}-, are in the least mo'e inimi 



252 



BURNS' WORKS. 



eal to the sacred interests of piety and virtue, 
than the, even lawful, bustling and straining 
after the world's riches and honours ; and I do 
not see but that he n.ay gain Heaven as well 
(which, by the bye, is no mean consideration), 
who steals through the vale of life, amusing 
himself with every little flower that fortune 
thrq|vs in his way ; as he who, straining straight 
forward, and perhaps bespattering all about him, 
gains some of life's little eminences ; where, af- 
tet all, he can only see, and be seen, a little more 
conspicuously, than what, in the pride of his 
heart, he is apt to term the poor, Indolent devil 
he has left behind him. 



There is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting 
tenderness, in some of our ancient ballads, which 
shows them to be the work of a masterly hand : 
and it has often given me many a heart-ache to 
reflect, that such glorious old bards — bards who 
very probably owed all their talents to native 
geiiius, yet have described the exploits of he- 
roes, the pangs of disappointment, and the melt- 
ings of love, with such fine strokes of nature — 
that their very names (O how mortifying to a 
bald's vanity!) are now "buried among the 
wieck of things which were." 

O ye illustrious names unlinown ! who could 
feel so strongly and describe so well ; the last, 
the meanest of the muses' train — one who, 
i£U)ugli far inferior to your flights, yet eyes your 
oath, and with trembling wing would sometimes 
loar after you — a poor rustic bard unknown, 
pays this sympathetic pang to your memory ! 
Some of you tell us, with all the charms of 
verse, that you have been unfortunate in the 
world — unfortunate in love : he too has felt the 
loss of his little fortune, the loss of friends, and, 
worse than all, the loss of the woman he adored. 
Like you, all his consolation was his muse : she 
taught him in rustic measures to complain. 
Happy could he have done it with your strength 
of imagination and flow of verse ! May the turf 
lie lightly on your bones ! and may you now 
enjoy that solace and rest which this world sel- 
dom gives to the heart, tuned to all the feelings 
of poesy and love ! 



This is all worth quoting in my MSS., and 
j more than all. 



R. B. 



for your silence and neglect ; I shall only ^uy I 
received yours with great pleasure. I have en- 
closed you a piece of rhyming ware for youi 
perusal. I have been very busy with the nmses 
since I saw you, and have composed, among se- 
veral others, The Ordination, a poem on Mr. 
M'Kinlay's being called to Kilmarnock ; Scotch 
Drink, a poem ; The Cotter's Saturday Night; 
An Address to the Devil, &c. I have likewise 
completed my poem on the Dogs, but have not 
shewn it to the world. My chief patron now 
is Mr. Aiken in Ayr, who is pleased to express 
great approbation of my works. Be so good as 
send me Fergusson, by Connel,* and I '.•'ill re- 
mit you the money. I have no news to ac- 
quaint you with about Mauchline, they are just 
going on in the old way. I have some very im- 
portant news with respect to myself, not the 
most agreeable, news that I am sure you cannot 
guess, but I shall give you the particulars an- 
other time. I am extremely happy with Smith ;-|* 
he is the only friend I have now in Mauchline. 
I can scarcely forgive your long neglect of me, 
s-^d I beg you will let me hear from you regu- 
larly by Connel. If you would act your part as 
a FRIEND, I am sure neither good nor had for - 
tune should strange or alter me. Excuse haste, 
as I got yours but yesterday — I am, 
My dear Sir, 
Yours, 
ROBt. BURNESS-t 



No. VIII. 
TO MR. M^WHINNIE, Writer, Ate. 

Mossgid, 11 ih April, 1786. 

It is injuring some hearts, those hearts that 
elegantly bear the impression of the good Crea- 
tor, to say to them you give them the trouble 
of obliging a friend ; for this reason, I only tell 
you that I gratify my own feelings in requesting 
your friendly offices with respect to the enclosed, 
because I know it will gratify yours to assist 
me in it to the utmost of your power. 

I have sent you four copies, as I have no less 
than eight dozen, which is a great deal more 
than I shall ever need. 

Be sure to remember a poor poet militant in 
your prayers. He looks forward with fear and 
trembhng to that, to him, Important moment 



LETTERS, 1786. 
No. VII. 

TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND, Edinburgh. 

„ „ ^»„ TlTnoartial "Poh T7 ITRR t This IS the onlv letter the Editor has mct With !» 

MY DEAR SIR, Mossgiel, J^eb. lly 1 /Hb. | ^^j^^ ^^^ p^^^ adds the termination ess to his name 

I HAVE not time at present to upbraid you i as his father and family had spelled it. 



* Connel— the Mauchline carrier. 

t Mr. James Smith, then a shop-keeper in Mauch. 
line. It was to this young man that Burns addressed 
one of his finest performances—" To J. S— — " be. 
ginning 

" Dear S , the sleest, paukie thief." 

He diec in the West-Indies. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



263 



whlcli stamps the die with — ^wlth — ^with, per- 
Ixaps the eternal disgrace of, 
My dear Sir, 
You humbled, 
afflicted, 
tormented 

robt. burns. 



No. IX. 



TO MONS. JAMES SMITH, Mauchline. 

Monday Morning, Mossgiel, 1786. 
MY IjEAr sir, 

I WENT to Dr. Douglas yesterday fully re- 
solved to take the opportunity of Capt. Smith ; 
but . ^ound the Doctor with a Mr. and Mrs. 
White, both Jamaicans, and they have deranged 
my plans altogether. They assure him that to 
send me from Savannah la Mar to Port Antonio 
will cost my master, Charles Douglas, upwards 
of fifty pounds ; besides running the risk of 
throwing myself into a pleuritic fever iu conse- 
quence of hard travelling in tlie sun. On these 
accounts, he refuses sending me with Smith, but 
a vessel sails from Greenock the first of Sept. 
right for the place of my destination. The Cap- 
tain of her is an intimate of Mr. Gavin Hamil- 
ton's, and as good a fellow as heart could wish : 
with him I am destined to go. Where I shall 
shelter, I know not, but I hope to weather the 
storm. Perish the drop of blood of mine that 
fears them ! I know their worst, and am pre- 
pared to meet it. — 

I'll laugh, an* sing, an' shake my leg. 
As lang's I dow. 

On Thursday morning, if you can muster as 
auch self-denial as to be out of bed about seven 
o'clock, I shall see you as I ride through to 
Cumnock. After all, Heaven bless the sex ! 
I feel there is still happiness for me among 
them. — 

O woman, lovely woman ! Heaven designed you 
To temper man ! we had been brutes without 
you! 



No. X. 



TO MR. DAVID BRICE. 

DEAR BRICE, Mossgiel, June 12, 1786. 

I RECEIVED your message by G. Puterson, 
and as I am not very throng at present, I just 
write to let you know that there is such a worth- 
less, rhyming reprobate, as your humble servant, 
still in the land of the living, though I can 
warcely say, in the place of hope. I have no 



news to tell you that will give me any pleasure 
to mention or you to hear. 



And now for a grand cure ; the ship is on her 
way home that is to take me out to Jamaica 
and then, farewell dear old Scotland, and fare- 
well dear ungrateful Jean, for never, never will 
I see you more. 

You will have heard that I am going to com- 
mence Poet in print ; and to-morrow my works 
go to the press. I expect it will be a volume o: 
about two hundred pages — it is just the last foo - 
ish action I intend to do ; and then turn a wise 
man as fast as possible. 

Believe me to be. 

Dear Brice, 
Your friend and well-wisher. 



No. XI. 



TO MR. AIKEN 

(the gentleman to whom the cotter's 
saturday night is addressed.) 

SIR, Ayrshire, 1786. 

I was with Wilson, ray printer, t'other day, 
and settled all our by -gone matters between us. 
After I had paid him all demands, I made him 
the offer of the second edition, on the hazard oi 
being paid out of the Jirst and readiest, which 
he declines. By his account, the paper of a 
thousand copies would cost about twenty-seven 
pounds, and the printing about fifteen or six- 
teen : he offers to agree to this for the prmting, 
if I will advance for the paper ; but this you 
know, is out of my power ; so farewell hopes 
of a second edition till I grow richer ! — an 
epocha which, I think, will arrive at the pay- 
ment of the British national debt. 

There is scarcely any thing hurts me so much 
in being disappointed of my second edition, as 
not having it in my power to show my grati- 
tude to Mr. Ballantyne, by publishing my poen 
of Tfie Brigs of Ayr. I would detest mysel 
as a wretcli, if I thought I were capable, in a 
very long life, of forgetting the honest, warm, 
and tender delicacy with which he enters into 
my interests. 1 am sometimes pleased with my- 
self in my grateful sensations ; but 1 believe, on 
the whole, I have very little merit in it, as my 
gratitude is not a virtue, the consequence of re- 
flection, but sheerly the instinctive emotion of n 
heart too inattentive to allow worldly maxims 
and views to settle into selfish habits. 

I have been feeling all the various rotations 
and movements within, respecting the excise. 
There are many things plead strongly against it ; 
the uncertainty of getting soon into business, the 
consequences of my follies, which may perhaps 
make it impracticable for me to stay at home 



254 



BURNS* WORKS. 



and besides. '\ have for some time Oeen pining 
under secret wretchedness, from causes which 
you pretty well know — the pang of disappoint- 
ment, the sting of pride, with some wandering 
stabs of remorse, which never fail to settle on 
my vitals like vultures, when attention is not 
called away by the calls of society or the vaga- 
ries of the muse. Even in the hour of social 
mirth, my gaiety is the madness of an intoxica- 
ted criminal under the hands of the executioner. 
All these reasons urge me to go abroad ; and to 
all these reasons I have only one answer — the 
feelings of a father. This, in the present mood 
I am in, overbalances every thing that can be 
laid in the scale against it. 



You may perhaps think it an extravagant 
fancy, but it is a sentiment which strikes home 
to my very soul : though sceptical, in some 
points, of our current belief, yet, I think, I have 
every evidence for the reality of a life beyond 
the stinted bourne of our present existence ; if 
BO, then how should I, in the presence of that 
tremendous Being, the Author of existence, how 
should I meet the reproaches of those who stand 
to me in the dear relation of children, whom I 
deserted in the smiling innocency of helpless in- 
fancy ? O, thou great unknown Power ! thou 
Almighty God ! who hast lighted up reason in 
my breast, and blessed nie with inunortality ! I 
have frequently wandered from that order and 
regularity necessary for the perfection of thy 
works, yet thou hast never left me nor forsaken 



Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have 
seen something of the storm of mischief thick- 
ening over my folly-devoted head. Should you, 
my friends, my benefactors, be successful in 
your applications for me, perhaps it may not be 
in my power in that way to reap the fruit of 
your friendly eflforts. What I have written in 
the preceding pages is the settled tenor of my 
present resolution j but should inimical cir- 
cumstances forbid me closing with your kind 
offer, or, enjoying it, only threaten to sntail 
farther misery— 



gressive struggle ; and that, however 1 might 
possess a warm heart and inoffensive manneri 
(which last, by the bye, was rather more than 
I could well boast), still, more than these pas- 
sive qualities, there was something to be done. 
When all my school-fellows and youthful com- 
peers C those misguided few excepted, who join- 
ed, to use a Gentoo phrase, the hallac/iores of 
the human race), were striking off with eager 
hope and earnest intent on some one or other 
of the many paths of busy life, I was " stand- 
ing idle in the market place," or only left the 
chase of the butterfly from flower to flower, to 
hunt fancy from whim to whim. 



You see. Sir, that if to know one's errors 
were a probability of mending them. I stand a 
fair chance; but, according to the reverend 
Westminster divines, though conviction must 
precede conversion, it is very far from alwayj 
implying it. * 



No. XII. 



To tell the truth, I have little reason for 
this last complaint, as the world, in general, 
has been kind to me, fully up to my deserts. 
I was, for some time past, fast getting into the 
pining distrustful snarl of the misanthrope. I 
saw myself alone, unfit for the struggle of life, 
shrinking at every rising cloud in the chance- 
directed atmosphere of fortune, while, all de- 
fenceless, I looked about in vain for a cover. 
It never occurred to me, at least never with the 
force it deserved, that this world is a busy 
scene, and man a creature destined for a pro- 



TO MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOR 

MAnAM, Ayrshire, 1786 

I AM truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, 
when I was so much honoured with your order 
for my copies, and incomparably more by the 
handsome compliments you are pleased to pay 
my poetic abilities. I am fully persuaded that 
there is not any class of mankind so feelingly 
alive to the ti filiations of applause as the sons 
of Parnassus ; nor is it easy to conceive how 
the heart of the poor bard dances with rapture, 
when those whose character in life gives them 
a right to be polite judges, honour him with 
their approbation. Had you been thoroughly 
acquainted with me, Madam, you could not 
have touched my darling heart-chord more 
sweetly than by noticing my attempts to cele- 
brate your illustrious ancestor, the Saviour oj 
his Country. 

" Great, patriot hero ! ill-requited chief." 

The first book I met with in my early years, 
which I perused with pleasure, was The Life 
of Hannibal : the next was The History oj 
Sir William Wallace : for several of my ear- 
lier years I had few other authors ; and many a 
solitary hour have I stole out, after the labori- 
ous vocations of the day, to shed a tear over 
their glorious but unfortunate stories. In those 
boyish days I remember in particular being 



- This letter was evidently written anderthedis 
tress of mind occasioned by our Poet's separation from 
Mrs. Burns. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



S5^ 



•truck with that part of Wallace's story where 
these lines occur — 

" Syne to the Leglen wood, when it was late, 
To make a silent and a safe retreat." 

I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day 
my line of life allowed, and walked half a dozen 
of miles to pay my respects to the Leglen wood, 
with as much devout enthusiasm as ever pil- 
grim did to Loretto ; and, as I explored every 
dea and dell whei'e I could suppcsi; my heroic 
countryman to have lodged, I recollect (for 
even then I was a rhymer), that my heart glow- 
ed with a wish to be able to make a song on 
him in some measure equal to his merits. 



No. XIII. 
TO MRS. STEWART, OF STAIR. 

MADAM, 1786. 

The hurry of my preparations for going a- 
broad has hindered me from performing my pro- 
mise so soon as I intended. I have here sent you 
a parcel of songs, fee. which never made their 
appearance, except to a friend or two at most. 
Perhaps some of them may be no great enter- 
tainment to you : but of that I am far from be- 
ing an adequate judge. The song to the tune 
of Ettrick Banks, you will easily see the impro- 
priety of exposing much even in manuscript. 
I think, myself, it lias some merit, both as a to- 
lerable description of one of Nature's sweetest 
scenes, a July evening, and one of the finest 
pieces of Nature's workmanship, the finest in- 
deed we know any thing of, an amiable, beauti- 
ful young woman ;• but I have no common 
friend to procure me that permission, without 
which I would not dare to spread the copy. 

I am quite aware. Madam, what task the 
world would assign me in chis .etter. The ob- 
scure bard, when any of the great condescend 
to take notice of him, should heap the altar with 
the incense of flattery. Their high ancestry, 
their own great and godlike qualities and actions, 
should be recounted with the most exaggerated 
description. This, Madam, is a task for which 
I am altogether unfit. Besides a certain dis- 
qualifying pride of heart, I know nothing of 
your connections in life, and have no access to 
where your real character is to be found — the 
company of your compeers : and more, I am a- 
fraid that even the most refined adulation is by 
no means the road to your good opinion. 

One feature of your character I shall ever 
with grateful pleasure remember — the reception 
I got, when I had the honour of waiting on you 
at Stair. I am little acquainted with politeness ; 
but I know a go«d deal ol benevolence of tem- 
per and goodness of heart. Surely, did those in 
exalted stations know how happy they could 
make some classes of their inferiors by conde- 



« MissA- 



scension and affability, they should never stand 
so high, measuring out w xh every looK. the 
height of their elevation, but condescend as 
sweetly as did Mrs. Stewart of Stair.* 



No. XIV. 



DR. BLACKLOCK 



THE REVEREND MR. G. LOWRIB. 

REVF.REND AND DEAR SIR, 

I OUGHT to have Acknowledged your favoui 
long ago, not only as a testimony of your kind 
remembrance, but as it gave me an opportunity ot 
sharing one of the finest, and, perhaps, one of the 
most genuine entertainments, of which the human 
mind is susceptible. A number of avocations re- 
tarded my progress in reading the poems ; at last, 
however, I have finished that pleasing perusal 
Many instances have I seen of Nature's force and 
beneficence exerted under numerous and formid- 
able disadvantages ; but none equal to that wiih 
which you have been kind enough to present me. 
There is a pathos and delicacy in his serious 
poems, a vein of wit and humour in those of a 
more festive turn, which cannot be too much 
admired, nor too warmly approved ; and I think 
I shall never open the book without feeling mv 
astonishment renewed and increased. It was my 
wish to have expressed my approbation in verse ; 
but whether from declining life, or a temporary 
depression of spirits, it is at present out of my 
power to accomplish that agreeable intention. 

Mr. Stewart, Professor of JMorals in this Uni 
versity, had formerly read me three of the poems, 
and I had desired him to get my name inserted 
among the subscribers; but whether this was 
done, or not, I never could learn. I have little 
intercourse with Dr. Blair, but will take care 
to have the poems communicated to him by the 
intervention of some mutual friend. It has been 
told me by a gentleman, to whom I showed the 
performances, and who sought a copy with dili- 
gence and ardour, that the whole impression is 
already exhausted. It were, therefore, much to 
be wished, for the sake of the young man, that 
a second edition, more numerous than the former, 
could immediately be printed ; as it appears cer- 
tain that its intrinsic merit, and the exertion of 
the author's friends, might give it a more uni- 
versal circulatv.in than any thing of the kind 
which has been published within my memory, f 



♦ The song enclosed is that given in the Life of our 
Poet; beginning, 

'Twas e'en — the dewy fields were green, (fee. 

\ T'.ie reader will perceive that this is the letter 
which produced the determination of our Bard to give 
up his scheme of going to the West Indies, and to try 
the fate of a new edition of his poems in Edinburgh. 
A '>opy of this letter was sent by Mr. Lowrie to Mr. G 
Hamilton, and by him communicated to Burns, amonj, 
whose papers it was found. 



£56 



BURNS' WORKS. 



No. XV. 

FROM SIR JOHN WHITE FORD. 

s'.n, Edinburgh, ^th December, 1786. 

I RECEIVED your letter a few days ago. I do 
not pretend to much interest, but what I have 
I shall be ready to exert in procuring the attain- 
ment of any object you have in view. Your 
character as a man (forgive my reversing your 
order), as well as a poet, entitle you, I think, to 
the assistance of every inhabitant of Ayrshire. 
I have been told you wished to be made a gau- 
ger ; I submit it to your consideration, whether 
it would not be more desirable, if a sum could 
be raised by subscription, for a second edition of 
your poems, to lay it out in the stocking of a 
small farm. I am persuaded it would be a line 
of life, much more agreeable to your feelings, and 
in the end more satisfactory. When you have 
considered this, let me know, and whatever you 
determine upon, I will endeavour to promote as 
far as my abilities will permit. With compli 
ments to my friend the doctor, I am. 

Your friend and well-wisher, 
JOHN WHITEFORD. 



P. S. — I shall take it as a favour when you 
' fcc any time send me a new production. 



No. XVI. 

FROM THE REV. MR. G. LOWRIE. 

DEAR SIR, 22d December, 1786. 

I i LAST week received a letter from Dr. Black- 

lock, in which he expresses a desire of seeing 
you. I write this to you, that you may lose no 
time in waiting upon him, should you not yet 
have seen him. 



I rejoice to hear, from all corners, of your 
rising fame, and I wish and expect it may tower 
still higher by the new publication. But, as a 
friend, I warn you to prepare to meet with your 
share of detraction and envy — a train that al- 
ways accompany great men. For your comfort, 
I am in great hopes that the number of your 
friends and admirers will increase, and that you 
have some chance of ministerial, or even ♦ * « * 
patronage. Now, my friend, such rapid success 
is very uncommon : and do you think yourself 
IE no danger of safiering by applause and a full 
purse ? Remember Solomon's advice, which he 
spoke from experience, " stronger is he that con- 
quers," &c. Keep fast hold of your rural sim- 
plicity and purity, like Telemachus, by Mentor's 
aid, m Calypso's isle, or even in that of Cyprus. 
t hope you have "'«<» Minerva with you. I 
need not tell you how much a modest difFdence 
Bud invincible temperance adorn the most shin- 



ing talents, and elevate the mind, a il exalt and 
refine the imagination even of a poet. 

I hope you will not imagine I speak from 
suspicion or evil report. I assure you I speak 
from love and good report, and good opinion, 
and a strong desire to see you shine as much in 
the sunshine as you have done in the shade, and 
in the practice as you do in the theory of virtue. 
This is my prayer, in return for your elegant 
composition in verse. All here join in compli 
ments, and good wishes for your further pros- 
perity. 



No. XVII. 



TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. 

MAUCHLINE. 

Edinburgh, Dec. 7, 1786. 

HONOURED SIR, 

I HAVE paid every attention to your com 
mands, but can only say what perhaps you will 
have heard before this rea';h you, that Mui»'- 
kirklands were bought by a John Gordon, W. S. 
but for whom I know not ; Mauchlands, Haugfi 
Miln, &c. by a Frederick Fotheringham, sup- 
posed to be for Ballochmyle Laird, and Adam- 
hill and Shawood were bought for Oswald's 
fjiks. — This is so imperfect an account, and will 
be so late ere it reach you, that were it not to 
discharge my conscience I would not trouble 
you with it ; but after all my diligence 1 couM 
make it no sooner nor better. 

For my own affairs, I am in a fair way of be- 
coming as eminent as Thomas a Kempis or John 
Bunyan ; and you may expect henceforth to see 
my birth-day inserted among the wonderful 
events, in the poor Robin's and Aberdeen Al- 
manacks, along with the Black Monday, and the 
battle of Bothvvell Bridge. — My lord Glencairn 
and the Dean of Faculty, Mr. H. Erskine, have 
taken me under their wing ; and by all proba- 
bility I shall soon be the tenth worthy, and the 
eighth wise man of the world. Through my 
lord's influence it is inserted in the records ot 
the Caledonian hunt, that they universally, one 
and all, subscribe for the second edition. — My 
subscription bills come out to-morrow, and you 
shall have some of them next post. — I have me* 
in Mr. Dalrymple, of Orangefield, what Solomon 
emphatically calls, '< A friend that sticketh 
closer than a brother." — The warmth with 
which he interests himself in my affairs is of the 
same enthusiastic kind which you, Mr. Aifcm, 
and the few patrons that took notice of my ear- 
lier poetic days, shewed for the poor unlucky 
devil of a poet. 

I always remember Mrs. Hamilton and Miss 
Kennedy in my poetic prayers, but you both in 
prose and verse. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



257 



May cauld ne'er cdicb you but • a hap, 
Nor hanger but in plenty's lap ! 
Amec ' 



No. XVIII. 
TO DR. M'KENZIE, Mauchline. 

(enclosing him thk extempore verses on 
dining with lord daer.) 

DEAR SIR, Wednesday Morning. 

I NEVER spent an afternoon among great 
folks with half that pleasure as when, in com- 
pany with you, I had the honour of paying my 
devoirs to that plain, honest, worthy man, the 
professor. -j- I would be delighted to see him 
perform acts of kindness and friendship, though 
I were not the object ; he does it with such a 
grace. I think his character, divided into ten 
parts, stands thus — four parts Socrates — four 
parts Nathaniel — and two parts Shakespeare's 
Brutus. 

The foregoing verses were really extempore, 
but a little corrected since. They may enter- 
tain you a little with the help of that partiality 
with which you are so good as favour the per- 
formances of 

Dear Sir, 

Your very humble Servant, 



No. XIX. 



TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq. Banker, 
Ayr. 
Edinburgh, \Sth Dec. 1786. 

MY HONOURED FRIEND, 

I WOULD not write you till I could have it 
in my power to give you some account of my- 
self and my matters, which by the bye is often 
no easy task — I arrived here on Tuesday was 
se'nnight, and have suffered ever since I came 
to town with a miserable head-ache and 
stomach complaint, but am now a good deal 
better. — I have found a worthy warm friend in 
Mr. Dahymple, of Orangefield, who introduced 
me to Lord Glencairn, a man whose worth and 
brotherly kindness to me, I shall remember 
when time shall be no more. — By his interest it 
is passed in the Caledonian hunt, and entered 
in their books, that they are to take each a 
copy of the second edition, for which they are 

to pay one guinea 1 have been introduced to 

a good many of the Noblesse, but my avowed 
patrons and patronesses are, the Duchess of 



Gordon — The Coiintess of Glencairn, with ray 
Lord, and Lady Betty* — The Dean of Faculty 
— Sir John Whitefuord. — I have likewise warm 
friends among the literati ; Professors Stewart, 
Blair, and Mr. M'Kenzie — the Man of Feeling. 
— An unknown hand left ten guineas for th« 
Ayrshire bard with Mr. Sibbald, which I got. 
— I since have discovered my generous unknown 
friend to be Patrick jMiller, Esq. brother to the 
Justice Clerk ; and drank a glass of claret with 
him by invitation at his own house yesternight. 
I am nearly agreed with Creech to print my 
book, and I suppose I will begin on Monday. I 
will send a subscription bill or two, next post ; 
when I intend writing my first kind pation, 
Mr. Aiken. I saw his son to-day and he is 
very well. 

Dugald Stewart, and some of my learned 
friends, put me in the periodical paper called 
the Loui]ger,f a copy of which I here enclose 
you — I was. Sir, when I was first honoured with 
your notice, too obscure ; now I tremble lest I 
should be ruined by being dragged too suddenly 
into the glare of polite and learned observation. 

I shall certainly, my ever honoured patron, 
write you an account of my every step ; and 
better health and more spirits may enable me tc 
make it something better than this stupid mat- 
ter of fact epistle. 

I have the honour to be. 
Good Sir, 
Your ever grateful humble Servani 

If any of my friends write me, mv directioa 
is, care of Mr. Creech, bookseiier. 



• "But" is frequently used for «« without i 
without clothing. 
t I'rofessoJT Dugald Stewart, 



No. XX.J 

TO I\JR. WILLIAM CHALMERS, 

Writer, Ayr. 

Edinburgh, Dec. 27, 1786. 

MY DEAR FRIEND, 

I CONFESS I have sinned the siu for which 
there is hardly any forgiveness — ingratitude to 
friendship — in not writing you sooner ; but of 
all men living, I had intended to send you an 
entertaining letter ; and by all the plodding, 
stupid powers, that in nodding, conceited ma- 
jesty, preside over the dull routine of business — 
A heavily-solemn oath this ! — I am, and have 
been, ever since I came to Edinburgh, as unfit 
to write a letter of humour, as to write a com- 
mentary on the Revelation of St. John the Di- 
vine, who was banished to the Isle of Patmos, 
by the cruel and bloody Domitian, son to Ves- 
pasian and brother to Titus, both emperors of 
Rome, and who was himself an emperor, and 



• Lady Betty Cunningham. 

+ 'Ilie paper here alluded to, was written by Mr. 
M'Kenzie, the celebrated auUior of the Man of Fe*'!. 

\ This letter is now prc»'LiUjd entue. 



258 



BURNS' WORKS. 



raised the second or third persecution, I forget 
which, against the Christians, and after throw- 
ing the said Apostle John, brother to the Apostle 
James, commonly called James the greater, to 
distinguish him from another James, who was, 
on some account or other, known by the name 
of James the less, after thn-wing him into a 
caldron of boiling oil, from which he was mi- 
raculously preserved, he banished the poor son 
of Zebedee, to a desert island in the Archipe- 
lago, where he was gifted with the second sight, 
and saw as many wild beasts as I have seen 
since I came to Edinburgh ; which, a circum- 
stance not very uncommon in story- telling, 
brings me back to where I set out. 

To make you some amends for what, before 
you reach this paragraph, you will have suffer- 
ed ; I enclose you two poems I have carded and 
spun since I past Glenbuck. 

One blank iu the address to Ediaburgh — 
*' Fair B ," is heavenly Miss Burnet, daugh- 
ter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have 
had the honour to be more than once. 

There has not been any thing nearly like her, 
in all the combinations of beauty, grace, and 
goodness, the Great Creator has formed, since 
Milton's Eve on the first day of her existence. 

My direction is — care of Andrew Bruce, mer- 
chant, Bridge- Street. 



LETTERS, 1787. 

No. XXI. 
TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq. 

Edinburgh, Jan. 14, 1787. 

M-i HONOURED FRIEND, 

It gives me a secret comfort to observe in 
myself that I am not yet so far gone as Willie 
Gaw's skate, " past redemption ;"* for I have 
still this favourable symptom of grace, that when 
my conscience, as in the case of this letter, tells 
me I am leaving something undone that I ought 
to do, it teazes me eternally till I do it. 

I am still " dark as was chaos" in respect to 
futurity. My generous friend, Mr. Patrick Mil- 
ler, has been talking with me about a lease of 
some farm or other in an estate called Dalswin- 
ton, which he has lately bought near Dumfries. 
Some life-rented embitteiing recollections whis- 
per me that I will be happier any where than 
in my old neighbourhood, but Mr. Miller is no 
judge of laiid ; and though I dare say he means 
to favour me, yet he may give me, in his opi- 
nion, an advantageous bargain, that may ruin 
nie. I am to take a tour by Dumfiies as I re- 
turn, and have promised to meet Mr. Miller on 
his lands some time in May. 



• This is one of a great number of old saws that 
Burns, when a lad, had picked up from his mother, 
of which the good old v/oman had a vast collection. 



I went to a Mason-lodge vesternight, where 
the most Worshipful- Grana Master Charters, 
and all the Grand-Lodge of Scotland visited.— 
The meeting was numerous and elegant ; all the 
different Lodges about town were present, in all 
their pomp. The Grand Master, who presided 
with great solemnity and honour to himself as a 
gentleman and Mason, among other general 
toasts gave " Caledonia, and Caledonia's Bard, 

Brother B ," which rung through the whole 

assembly with multiplied honours and repeated 
acclamations. As I had no idea such a thing 
would happen, I was downright thunder-struck, 
and trembling in every nerve made the best re- 
turn in my power. Just as I had finished, some 
of the grand officers said, so loud that I could 
hear, with a most comforting accent, " Very 
well indeed ! " which set me something to rights 
0|jain. 



I have to-dny corrected my 152d page. My 
best good wishes to Mr. Aiken. 
I am ever. 
Dear Sir, 
Your much indebted humble Servant 



No. xxn. 

TO THE EARL OF EGLINTON. 

MY LORD, Edinburgh, Jan. 178 7. 

As I have but slender pretensions to philoso- 
phy, I cannot riso to the exalted ideas of a ci- 
tizen of the world ; but have all those national 
prejudices which, I believe, glow peculiarly 
strong in the breast of a Scotchman. There is 
scarcely any thing Co which I am so feelingly 
alive, as the honour and welfare of my country ; 
and, as a poet, I have no higher enjoyment than 
singing her sons jnd daughters. Fate had cast 
my station in the veriest shades of life ; but ne- 
ver did a heart pant more ardently than mine, 
to be distinguished ; though, till very lately, I 
looked in vain on every side for a ray of light. 
It is easy, then, to guess how much I was gra- 
tified with the countenance and approbation of 
one of my country's most illustrious sons, when 
Mr. Wauchope called on me yesterday, on the 
part of your lordship. Your munificence, my 
lord, certainly deserves my very grateful ac- 
knowledgments ; but your patronage is a boun- 
ty peculiarly suited to my feelings. I am not 
master enough of the etiquette of life to know 
whether there be not some impropriety in 
troubling your lordship with my thanks ; but 
my heart whispered me to do it. From the 
emotions of my inmost soul I do it. Selfish in 
gratitude, I hope, I am incapable of; and mer 
cenaiy servility, I trust, I shall ever have so 
much honest pride as to detest. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



259 



iNo. XXIIL 
rO MRS. DUNLOP. 

,^A^Aj»l, Edinburgh, \bth Jan. 1787. 

Yours of tlie 9th current, which I am this 
aioment honoured with, is a deep reproach to 
me for ungrateful neglect. I will tell you the 
real truth, for I am miserahly awkward at a 
Sb : I wished to have written to Dr. Moore 
before T wrote to you ; but though, every day 
!«inc-e I received yours of December SOth, the 
idea, the wish to write him, has constantly 
pressed on my thoughts, yet I could not for my 
soul set about it. I know his fame and charac- 
ter, and I <im one of " the sons of little men." 
To write him a mere matter-of-fact affair, like 
a merchant's order, would be disgracing the lit- 
tle cliaracter I have ; and to write the author 
of The View of Society and Manners a letter 
of sentiment — I declare svery artery runs cold 
at the thought. I shall try, however, to write 
him to-morrow or next day. His kind interpo- 
sition in my behalf I have already experienced, 
as a gentleman waited on me the other day, on 
the part of Lord Eglinton, with ten guineas by 
way of subscription for two copies of my next 
edition. 

The word you object to in the mention I 
have made of my glorious countryman and your 
immortal ancestor, is indeed borrowed from 
Thomson ; but it does not strike me as an im- 
,yroper epithet. I distrusted my own judgment 
on your finding fault with it, and applied for 
the opinion of some of the literati here, who 
honour me with their critical strictures, and 
*i.2y all allow it to be proper. The song you 
isk I cannot recollect, and I have not a copy of 
it. I have not composed any thing on the great 
Wallace, except what you have seen in print, 
and the enclosed, which I will print in this edi- 
tion. * You will see I have mentioned some 
others of the name. When I composed my 
Vision, long ago, I had attempted a description 
of Kyle, of which the additional stanzas are a 
part, as it originally stood. IMy heart glows 
with a wish to be able to do justice to the me- 
rits of the Saviour of his Country, which, 
sooner or later, I shall at least attempt. 

You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with 
my prosperity as a poet. Alas ! Madam, I 
know myself and the world too well. I do not 
mean any airs of affected modesty ; I am wil- 
ling to believe that my abilities deserved some 
notice ; but in a most enlightened, informed 
age and nation, when poetry is and has been 
the study of men of the first natural genius, 
aided with all the powers of polite learning, 
polite books, and polite company — to be drag- 
ged forth to the full glare of learned and polite 
observation, with all my imperfections of awk- 



* Stanzas in tha Vision, beginning third stanza, 
" By stately tower >r palace fair," and ending with the 
first duan. 



ward rusticity and crude unpolished ideas on my 
head — T assure you. Madam, I do not dissemble 
when I tell you I tremble for the consequences. 
The novelty of a poet in my obscure situation, 
without any of those advantages which are 
reckoned necessary fi)r that character, at least 
at this time of day, has raised a partial tide of 
public notice, which has borne me to a height 
where I am absolutely, feelingly certain, my 
abilities are inadequate to support me ; and too 
surely do I see that time when the same tide 
will leave me, and recede, perhaps, as far beloW 
the mark of truth. 



Your patronizing me, and interesting your- 
self in my fame and character as a |>oet, I re- 
joice in ; it exalts me in my own idea ; and 
whether you <tan or cannot aid me in my sub- 
scription is a trifle. Has a paltry subscription- 
bill any charms to the heart of a bard, compar- 
ed with the patronage of the descendant of the 
nnmortal Wallace? 



No. XXIV 



TO DR. MOORE. 



SIR, 1787. 

Mrs. Dun lop has been so kind as to send me 
extracts of letters she has had from you, where 
you do the rustic bard the honour of noticing 
him and his works. Those who have felt the 
anxieties and solicitudes of authorshi;^, can only 
know what pleasure it gives to be noticed in sucla 
a manner by judges of the first character. Your 
criticisms. Sir, I receive with reverence ; only, 
I am sorry they mostly came too late ; a peccant 
passage or two, that I would certainly have al- 
tered, were gone to the press. 

The hope to be admired for ages is, in by far 
the greater part of those even who are authors 
of repute, an unsubstantial dream. For my part, 
my first ambition was, and still my strongest 
wish is, to please my compeers, the rusticin- 
tnates of the hamlet, while ever changing lan- 
guage and manners shall allow me to be relished 
and understood. I am very willing to admit 
that I have some poetical abilities ; and as few, 
if any writers, either moral or poetical, are inti- 
mately acquainted with the classes of mankind 
ai*ong whom I have chiefly mingled, I may have 
seen men and manners in a different phasis from 
what is common, which may assist originality 
of thought. Still I know very well the novelty 
of my character has by far the greatest share in 
the learned and polite notice I have lately bad ; 
and in a hnguage vi'here Pope and Churchill 
have raised the laugh, and Shenstone and Gray 
drawn the tear — where Thomson and Beattie 
have painted the landscape, and Lyttleton and 
Collins desciibed the heart, I am not vain c- 
nough to hope for distinguished poetic fame. 



260 



BURNS' WORKS. 



No. XXV. 
FROM DR. MOORE. 

SIR, Clifford Street, Jan. 23, 1787. 

I HAVE just received your letter, by which I 
find I have reason to complain of my friend 
Mrs. Dunlop for transmitting to you extracts 
from my letters to her, by much too freely and 
too carelessly written for your perusal. I must 
forgive her, however, in consideration of her 
good intention, as you will forgive me, I hope, 
for the freedom I use with certain expressions, 
in consideration of my admiration of the poems 
in general. If I may judge of the author's dis- 
position from his works, with all the other g()od 
qualities of a poet, he has not the irritable tem- 
per ascribed to that race of men by one of their 
own number, whom you have the happiness to 
resemble in ease and curious felicity of expres- 
*iion. Indeed the poetical beauties, however 
original and brilliant, and lavishly scattered, 
are not all I admire in your works ; the love of 
your native country, that feeling sensil)iliry to 
all the objects of humanity, and the independent 
spirit which breathes through the whole, give 
me a most favourable impression of the poet, 
and have made me often regret that I did not 
see the poems, the certain effect of which would 
have been my seeing the author last summer, 
when I was longer in Scotland than I have been 
I for many years. 

I rejoice very sincerely at the encouragement 
you receive at Edinburgh, and I think you pe- 
culiarly fortunate in the patronage of Dr. Blair, 
who, I am informed, interests himself very much 
for you. I beg to be remembered to him : no- 
body can have a warmer regard for that gentle- 
man than I have, which, independent of the 
worth of his character, would be kept alive by 
the memory of our common friend, the late Mr. 
George B e. 

Before I received your letter, I sent enclosed 
in a letter to , a sonnet by Miss Wil- 
liams, a young poetical lady, which she wrote 
on reading your Mountain-Daisy ; perhaps it 
may not displease you. * 

1 have been trying to add to the number of 
your subscribers, but I find many of my ac- 
quaintance are already among them. I have 
only to add, that with every sentiment of es- 
teem, and most cordial good wishes, 
1 am, 

Your obedient humble servant, 
J. MOORE. 



• The sonnet is as follows : — 

While soon the garden's flaunting flowers de- 
cay, 

And scattered on the earth neglected lie, 
Tlie " ]\lountain-Daisy," cherished by the ray 

A poet drew from heaven, shall never die. 
4h, like that lonely flower the poet rose ! 

'Mid penury's bare soil and bitter gale ; 



He felt each storm that on the mountain blows. 

Nor ever knew the shelter of the vale. 
By genius in her native vigour nurst. 

On nature with impassion'd look he gazed ; 
Then through the cloud of adverse fortune burst 

Indignant, and in light unburrow'd blazed. 
Scotia ! from rude affliction shield thy bard, 

Kis heaven-taught numbers Fame herself will 
guard. 



No. XXVI. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

SIR, Edinburgh, 1 5th Feb. 1787. 

Pardon my seeming neglect in delaying so 
long to acknowledge the honour yoa have done 
me, in your kind notice of me, January 23d. 
Not many months ago, I knew no other em- 
ployment than following the plough, nor could 
boast any thing higher than a distant acquaint- 
ance with a country clergyman. Mere great- 
ness never embarrasses me : I have nothing to 
ask from the great, and I do not fear their 
judgment ; but genius, polished by learning, 
and at its proper point of elevation in the eye of 
the world, this of late I frequently meet with, 
and tremble at its approach. I scorn the affec- 
tation of seeming modesty to cover self-conceit. 
That I have some merit I do not deny ; but I 
see, with frequent wringings of heart, that the 
novelty of my character, and the honest national 
prejudice of my countrymen, have borne me to 
a height altogether untenable to my abilities. 

For the honour Miss W. has done me, please. 
Sir, return her in my name, my most grateful 
thanks. I have more than once thought of pay- 
ing her in kind, but have hitherto quitted the 
idea in hopeless despondency. I had never be- 
fore heard of her ; but the other day I got her 
poems, which, for several reasons, some belong- 
ing to the head, and others the offspring of the 
heart, give me a great deal of pleasure. I have 
little pretensions to critic lore : there are, I 
think, two characteristic features in her poetry 
— the unfettered wild flight of native genius, 
and the querulous, sombre tenderness of " time- 
settled sorrow." 

I only know what pleases me, often without 
being able to tell why. 



No. XXVII. 
TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq. Air. 
Edinburgh, Feb. 24, 1787 

MY HONOURED FRIEND, 

I WILL soon be with you now in guid blacH 
prent ; in a week or ten days at farthest — 1 are 
obliged, against my own wish, to print sub. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



261 



scribers names, so if any of my Ayr friends 
nave subscriptioa bills, they must be sent in to 
Creech directly. — lam getting my phiz done by 
an eminent engraver ; and if it can be ready in 
time, I will appear in my book looking like other 
fools, to my title page.* 

I have the honour to be, 

Ever your grateful, &c. 



land too early 
without it. 



life for recollection. i% not 



I remain, with greatest sincerity, 
Your obedient servant, 

J. MOORK 



No. XXVIII. 
FROM DR. MOORE. 

Clifford Street, 2Sth Feb. 1787. 

DEAR SIR, 

Your letter of the 15th gave me a great deal 
of pleasure. It is not surprising that you im- 
prove in correctness and taste, considering v/here 
you have been for some time past. And I dare 
swear there is no danger of your admitting any 
polish which might weaken the vigour of your 
native powers. 

I am glad to perceive that you disdain the 
nauseous affectation of decrying your own merit 
as a poet — an aflfectation which is displayed with 
most ostentation by those who have the greatest 
share of self-conceit, and which only adds unde- 
ceiving falsehood to disgusting vanity. For you 
to deny the merit of your poems would be ar- 
raigning the fixed opinion of the public. 

As the new edition of my View of Society 
is not yet ready, I have sent you the former 
edition, which, I beg you will accept as a small 
mark of my esteem. It is sent by sea, to the 
care of Mr. Creech ; and, along with these four 
volumes for yourself, I have also sent my Medi- 
cal Sketches, in one volume, for my friend Mrs. 
Dunlop of Dunlop : this you will be so obliging 
as to transmit, or if you chance to pass soon by 
Dunlop, to give to her. 

I am happy to hear that your subscription Is 
eo ample, and shall rejoice at every piece of good 
fortune that befalls you : for you are a very 
great favourite in my family ; and this is a 
higher compliment than perhaps you are aware 
of. It includes almost all the professions, and 
of course is a proof that your writings are adapt- 
ed to various tastes and situations. My young- 
est son who is at Winchester school, writes to 
me that he is translating some stanzas of your 
Hallowed en into Latin verse, for the benefit of 
his comrades. This union of taste partly pro- 
ceeds, no doubt, from the cement of Scottish 
partiality, with wliich they are all somewhat 
tinctured. Even your translator, who left Scot- 



* This portrait is engraved by Mr. Beugo, an artist 
who well merits the epithet besiowed on him by the 
poet, after a picture of Mr. Nasmyth, which he paint- 
ed cof^ amore, and liberally presented to Burns. This 
picture is of the cabinet size. 



No. XXIX. 
TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

MY LORD, Edinburgh^ 1787. 

I WANTED to purchase a profile of your lord. 
ship, which I was told was to be got in town ; 
but I am truly sorry to see that a blundering 
painter has spoiled a " human face divine.' 
The enclosed stanzas I intended to have written 
below a picture or profile of your lordship, could 
I have been so happy as to procure one with any 
thing of a likeness. 

As I will soon return to my shades, I wanted 
to have something like a material object for my 
gratitude ; I wanted to have it in my power to 
say to a friend, There is my noble patron, my 
generous benefactor. Allow me, my lord, to 
publish these verses. I conjure your lordship 
by the honest throe of gratitude, by the gene- 
rous wish of benevolence, by all the powers and 
feelings which compose the magnanimous mind, 
do not deny me this petition.* I owe to your 
lordship ; and what has not in some other in 
stances always been the case with me, the weigh 
of the obligation is a pleasing load. I trust, 
have a heart as independent as your lordship's, 
than which I can say nothing more : and 
would not be beholden to favours that woul^ 
crucify my feelings. Your dignified character 
in life, and manner of supporting that character 
are flattering to my pride; and I would be jea- 
lous of the purity of my grateful attachment, 
where I was under the patronage of one of the 
much favoured sons of fortune. 

Almost every poet has celebrated his patrons, 
particularly when they were names dear to fame, 
and illustrious in their country ; allow me, then, 
my lord, if you think the verses have intrinsic 
merit, to tell the world how much I have the 
honour to be 

Your lordship's highly indebted. 
And ever grateful humble servant 



• It does not appear that the Earl granted this re< 
quest, nor have the verses alluded to been found 
among the MSS. 



262 



BURNS' WORKS. 



No. XXX. 
TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

KV LORD, 

The honour your lordstip has done me, by 
your notice and advice in yours of the 1st in- 
stant, I shall ever gratefully remember : 

" Praise from thy lips 'tis mine with joy to 

boast. 
They best can give it who deserve it most." 

Your lordship touches the darling chord of 
my heart, when you advise me to fire my muse 
at Scottish story and Scottish scenes. I wish 
for nothing more than to make a leisurely pil- 
grimage through my native country ; to sit and 
muse on those once hard- contended fields, where 
Caledonia, rejoicing, saw her bloody lion borne 
through broken ranks to victory and fame ; and, 
catching the inspiration, to pour the deathless 
names in song. But, my lord, in the midst of 
these enthusiastic reveries, a long-visaged, dry, 
moral- looking phantom strides across my imagi- 
nation, and pronounces these emphatic words, 
" I, Wisdom, dwell with prudence." 



This, my lord, is unanswerable. I must re- 
lurn to my humble station, and woo my rustic 
muse in my wonted way at the plough-tail. 
Still, my lord, while the drops of life warm my 
heart, gratitude to that dear-loved country in 
which I boast my birth, and gratitude to those 
her distinguished sons, who have honoured me 
*>o much with their patronage and approbation, 
shall, while stealing through my humble shades, 
ever distend my bosom, "and at times draw 
forth the swelling tear. 



No. XXXL 

Ext. Pr perty in favour of Mr. Robert 
BuRNt, ^0 erect and keep iip a Headstone in 
memory of Poet Fergusson, 1787. 

Session-house, within the Kirk of Ca- 
nongate, the tie enty -second day of 
February, one thousand seven hun- 
dred and eighty-seven years. 

Sederunt of the managers of the Kirk and Kirk- 
yard Funds of Canongate. 

Which day, the treasurer to the said funds 
produced a letter from Mr, Robert Burns, of 
date the sixth current, which was read, and 
appointed to be engrossed in their sederunt- 
book, and of which letter the tenor follows . 
** To the Honourable Bailies of Canonofate, 



Edinburgh. Gentlemen, T am sorrj to be told 
that the remains of Robert Fergusson, the s* 
justly celebrated poet, a man whose talents, for 
ages to come, will do honour to our Caledo- 
nian name, lie in your church-yard, among the 
ignoble dead, unnoticed and unknown. 

" Some memorial to direct the steps of the 
lovers of Scottish song, when they wish to shed 
a tear over the " narrow house," of the bard 
who is no more, is surely a tribute due to Fer- 
gusson's memory ; a tribute I wish to have the 
honour of paying. 

*' I petition you, then. Gentlemen, to permit 
me to lay a simple stone over his revered ashes, 
to remain an unalienable property to his death- 
less fame. I have the honour to be. Gentlemen, 
your very humble servant, {sic subscribitur), 
" ROBERT BURNS." 

Thereafter the said managers, in considera- 
tion of the laudable and disinterested motion 
of Mr. Burns, and the propriety of his request, 
did, and hereby do, unanimously grant power 
and liberty to the said Robert I3urns to erect 
a headstone at the grave of the said Robert 
Fergusson, and to keep up and preserve the 
same to his memory in all time coming. Ex 
tracted forth of the records of the managers, by 
William Spbotx, Clerk 



MT DEAH SIR, 

You may think, and too justly, that I am a 
selfish ungrateful fellow, having received so 
many repeated instances of kindness from you, 
and yet never putting pen to paper to say — ■ 
thank you ; but if you knew what a devil of a 
life my conscience has led me on that account, 
your good heart would think yourself too much 
avenged. By the bye, there is nothing in the 
whole frame of man which seems to me so 
unaccountable as that thing called conscience. 
Had the troublesome yelping cur powers effi- 
cient to prevent a mischief, he might be of 
use : but at the beginning of the business, his 
feeble efforts are to the workings of passion as 
the infant frosts of an autumnal morning to the 
unclouded fervour of the rising sun : and no 
sooner are the tumultuous doings of the wicked 
deed over, than, amidst the bitter native con- 
sequences of folly, in the very vortex of our 
horrors, up starts conscience, and harrows ua 
with the feelings of the d . 

I have enclosed you, by way of expiation, 
some verse and prose, that, if they merit a place 
in your truly entertaining miscellany, you are 
welcome to. The prose extract is literally aa 
Mr. Sprott sent it me. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



7%e Inscription on the Stone is as follows : 
HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, 

POET. 
Born Septembtr 5th, IJol—Died, IGth October 1774. 

No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, 
" No storitd urn nor animated bust " 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia s way 
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. 

On the other side of the Stone is as follows : 

" By special grant of the Managers to Robert 
Burns, who erected this stone, this burial-place 
I is to remain for ever sacred to the memory of 
Robert Fergusson." 



No. XXXIII. 

LETTER 



EXTRACT OF A 
FROM 



Sth March, 1787. 

I AM truly happy to know you have found a 

friend in ; his patronage of you does 

him great honour. He is truly a good man ; 
by far the best I ever knew, or, perhap.*, ever 
shall know, in this world. But I must not 
speak all I think of him, lest I should be thought 
partial. 

So you have obtained liberty from the magis- 
trates to erect a stone over Fergusson's grave ? 
I do not doubt it ; such things have been, as 
Shakespeare says, " in the olden time :" . 

" The poet's fate, is here in emblem shown, 
He ask'd for bread, and he received a stone." 

It is, I believe, upon poor Butler's tomb that 
this is written. But how many brothers of 
Parnassus, as well as poor Butler and poor Fer- 
gusson, have asked for bread, and been served 
with the same sauce ! 

The magistrates gave you liberty, did they ? 
O generous magistrates! .... celebrated 
over the three kingdoms for his public spirit, 
gives a poor poet liberty to raise a tomb to a 
poor poet's memory ! — most generous ! . . . 
once upon a time gave that same poet the mighty 
sum of eighteen pence for a copy of his works. 
But then it must be considered that the poet was 
at this time absolutely starving, and besought 
his aid with all the earnestness of hunger ; and, 

over and above, he received a worth, at 

least one-third of the value, in exchange, but 
which, I believe the poet afterwards very un- 
gratefully expunged. 

Next week I hope to have the pleasure of 
seeing you in Edinburgh ; and as my stay wih 



263 



would take a snug, v/ell-uired bed-\-oom tor me, 
where I may have the pleasure of seeing you 
over a morning cup of tea. But Ay all accounts, 
it will be a matter of !«ome difficulty to see you 
at all, unless your company is bespokt a week 
before-hanfl. There is a great rumour here con- 
cerning your great intimacy with the Duchess ot 

, and other ladies of distinction. I am 

really told that " cards to invite fly by thousands 
each night;" and, if you had one, I suppose 
there would also be " bribes to your old secre- 
tary." It seems you are resolved to make hav 
while the sun shines, and avoid, if possible, the 

fate of poor Fergusson, 

Qucereiida pecuiiia primum est, virtus post num- 
mos, is a good maxim to thrive by : you seemed 
to despise it while in this country ; but proba- 
bly some philosopher in Edinburgh has taught 
you better sense. 

Pray, are you yet engraving as well as print- 
ing .? — Are you yet seized 

" With itch of picture in the front, 
With bays of wicked rhyme upou't !" 

But I must give up this trifling, and attend 
to matters that more concern myself : so, as the 
Aberdeen wit says, adieu dryly, we sal drink 
phan we meet.* 



No. XXXIV. 
TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH, 
Stjdent in Physic, College, Glasgow 
Edinburgh, 3Iarch 21, 1787. 

MY EVER DEAR OLD ACQUAINTANCE, 

I WAS equally surprised and pleased at your 
letter ; though I dare say you will think by my 
delaying so long to write to you, that I am so 
drowned in the intoxication of good fortune as 
to be mdiffejent to old and once dear connec- 
tions. The truth is, I was determined to write 
a good letter, full of argument, amplification, 
erudition, and, as Bayes says, a/l that. I thought 
of it, and thought of it, but for my soul I can- 
not : and lest you should mistake the cause of 
my silence, I just sit down to tell you so. Don't 
give yourself credit though, that the strength of 
your logic scares me : the truth is, I never mean 
to meet you on that ground at all. You have 



fee for eight or ten days, I wish you or 



* The abo' e extract is from a letter of one of the 
ablest ot our poet's correspondents, which contains 
someinteresling anecdotes of Fergusson. that we should 
have been happy to have inserted, if they could have 
been authenticated. The writer is mistaken in supi)os- 
ing the magistrates of Edinburgh had any share in the 
transaction respecting the monument erected for Fer- 
gusson by our bard ; this, it is evident, passed betweeg 
Burns and the Kirk Session of the Canonoate. Neither 
at Ldmburgh, nor anywhere else, do magistrates usu. 
ally trouble themselves to inquire how the house of a 
poor poet is furnished, or how his grave is adorned. 



264 



BURINS' WORKS. 



BiiCTTii me one thing, which was to he demon- 
strated ; that strong pride of reasoning, with a 
little affectation of singularity, may mislead the 
best of hearts. I, likewise, since you and I 
were first acquainted, in the pride of despising 
old women's stories, ventured in " the daring 
path Spinosa trod ;" but experience of the 
weakness, not the strength, of human powers, 
made me glad to grasp at revealed religion. 

I must stop, but don't impute my brevity to 
a wrong cause. I am still, in the Apostle Paul's 
phrase, " The old man with his deeds" as when 
we were sporting about the lady thorn. I shall 
be four weeks here yet, at least ; and so I shall 
expect to hear from you — welcome sense 
come nonsense. 

I am, with the warmest sincerity, 
My dear old friend. 

Your?. 



wel- 



No. XXXV. 
TO THE SAME. 

MV TEAR FR^EVD, 

I F once I were gone from this scene of hurry 
and dissipation, I promise myself the pleasure 
of that correspondence being renewed which has 
been so long broken. At present 1 have time 
for nothing. Dissipation and business engross 
every moment. I am engaged in assisting an 
honest Scots enthusiast.* a friend of mine, who 
is an engraver, and has taken it into his head to 
publish a collection of all our songs set to music, 
of which the woids and music are done by Scots- 
men. This, you will easily guess, is an under- 
taking exactly to my taste. I have collected, 
begged, borrowed, and stolen all the songs I 
could meet with. Pompey's Ghost, words and 
music, I beg from you immediately, to go into 
bis second number : the first is already pub- 
lished. I shall shew you the first number when 
I see you in Glasgow, which will be in a fort- 
night or less. Do be so kind as send me the 
song in a day or two ; you cannot imagine how 
inuch it will oblige me. 

Direct to me at JNIr. W. Cruikshank's, St. 
James's Square, New Town, Edinburgh. 



So. XXXVI. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



MAPA>r, EdinhuTgh, March 22, 17S7. 

I READ your letter with watery eyes. A lit- 
tle, very little while ago, / had scarce a friend 
but the stubborn pride of my own bosom; now 
I am distinguished, pationized, befriended by 
you. Your friendly advices, I will not give 

* Johnson, the publisher of the Scots Musical Museum. 



them the cold name of criticisms, I receiTC xritfi 
reverence. I have made some small alterations 
in what I before had printed I have the ad 
vice of some very judicious friends among th« 
literati here, hut with them 1 sometimes find it 
necessary to claim the privilege of thinking for 
myself. The noble Earl of Glencairn, to whom 
I owe more than to any man, does me the hon- 
our of giving me his strictures : his hints with 
respect to impropriety or indelicacy, I follow im- 
plicitly. 

You kindly interest yourself in my future 
views and prospects ; there 2 can give you no 
light ; it is all 

" Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun 
Was roU'd together, or had tried his beams 
Athwart the gloom profound." 

The appellation of a Scottish bard is by far 
my highest pride ; to continue to deserve it is 
my most exalted ambition. Scottish scenes and 
Scottish story are the themes I could wish to 
sing. I have no dearer aim than to have it in 
my power, unplagued with the routine of busi- 
ness, for which heaven knows I am unfit enough, 
to make leisurely pilgrimages through Caledonia ; 
to sit on the fields of her battles ; to wander on 
the romantic banks of her rivers ; and to muse 
by the stately towers or venerable ruins, once 
] the honoured abodes of her heroes. 
I But these are all Utopian thoughts : I have 
I dallied long enough with life : 'tis time to be in 
, earnest. I have a fond, an aged mother to care 
for ; and some other bosom ties perhaps equally 
tender. Where the individual only suffers by 
the consequences of his own thoughtlessness, in- 
dolence, or folly, he may be excusable : nay, 
shining abilities, and some of the nobler virtues, 
may half-sanctify a heedless character : but 
where God and nature have intrusted the wel- 
fare of others to his care ; where the trust is sa- 
cred, and the ties are dear, that man must be 
far gone in selfishness, or strangely lost to reflec- 
tion, whom these connections will not rouse to 
exertion. 

I guess that 1 shall clear between two and 
three hundred pounds by my authorship ; with 
that sum I intend, so far as I may be said to 
have any intention, to return to my old acquain- 
tance, the plough, and, if I can meet with a 
lease by which I can live, to commence farmer. 
1 do not intend to give up poetry : being bred 
to labour secures me independence ; and the 
muses are my chief, sometimes have been my 
only enjoyment. If my practice second my re- 
solution, I shall have principally at heart the se- 
rious business of life : but while following my 
plough, or building up my shocks, I shall cast a 
leisure glance to that dear, that only feature of 
my character, which gave me the notice of my 
country and the patronage of a Wallace. 

Thus, honoured madam, I have given you th« 
bard, his situation, and his views, native as thev 
are in his own bosom. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



265 



No. XXXVIL 

TO THE SAME. 

MADAM, Edinburgh, 1 5 ih April, 1787. 

There is an affectation of gratitude which I 
dislike. The periods of Johnson and the pauses 
of Sterne may hide a selfish heart. For my 
part. Madam, I trust I have too much pride for 
servility, and too little prudence for selfishness. 
I have this moment broke open your letter, 
but 

" Rude am I in speech, . 

And therefore little can I grace my cause 

]n speaking for myself — " 

so T shall not trouble you with any fine speeches 
and hunted figures. I shall just lay my hand 
on my heart, and say, I hope I shall ever have 
the truest, the warmest, sense of your goodness. 

I come abroad in print for certain on Wed- 
nesday. Your orders I shall punctually attend 
to ; only, by the way, I must tell you that I 
was paid before for Dr. Moore's and Miss W's 
copies, through the medium of Commissioner 
Cochrane in this place ; but that we can settle 
when I have the honour of waiting on you. 

Dr. Smith* was just gone to London the 
morning before I received your letter to him. 



No. XXXVIII. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

Edinburgh, 23d April, 1787. 

I RECEIVED the books, and sent the one you 
mentioned to Mrs. Dunlop. I am ill-skilled in 
beating the coverts of imagination for metaphors 
of gratitude. I thank you, Sir, for the honour 
you have done me ; and to my latest hour will 
warmly remember it. To be highly pleased 
with your book, is what I have in common 
with the world ; but to regard these volumes as 
a mark of the author's friendly esteem, is a still 
more supreme gratification. 

I leave Ed^burgh in the course of ten days 
or a fortnight ; and after a few pilgrimages over 
some of the classic ground of Caledonia, Cow- 
den- Knoives, Hanks of Yarrow, Tweed, ^c. 
I shall return to my rural shades, in all likeli- 
hood never more to quit them. I have formed 
many intimacies and friendships here, but I am 
afraid they are all of too tender a construction 
to bear carriage a hundred and fifty miles. To 
the rich, the great, the fashionable, the polite, 
'^ have no equivalent to offer ; and I am afraid 
my meteor appearance will by no means entitle 
me to a settled correspondence with any of you, 
who are the permanent lights of genius and li- 
terature. 



Adam Smith. 



My most respectful conipllrnents to Miss W 
[f once this tangent flight of mine were over 
and I were returned to ray wonted leisurely 
motion in my old circle, T may probably endea 
vour to return her poetic compliment in kind 



No. XXXIX. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER 

TO MRS DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, 30th April, 1787. 
Your criticisms, Madam, I under- 



stand very well, and could have wished to have 
pleased you better. You are right in your guess 
that I am not very amenable to counsel. Poets, 
much my superiors, have so flattered tliose who 
possessed the adventitious qualities of wealth and 
power, that I am determined to flatter no cre- 
ated being either in prose or verse. 

I set as little by , lords, clergy, cri- 
tics, &c. as all these respective gentry do by 
my hardship. I know what I may expect from 
the world by and by — illiberal abuse, and per- 
haps contemptuous neglect. 

I am happy, Madam, that some of my own 
favourite pieces are distinguished by your par- 
ticular approbation. For my Dream, which 
has unfortunately incurred your loyal displea- 
sure, I hope in four weeks, or less, to have the 
honour of appearing at Dunlop in its defence, in 
person. 



No. XL. 



TO THE REVEREND DR. HUGH BLAIR. 

Lawn-Market, Edinburgh, Sd May, 1787. 

REVEREND AND MUCH RESPECTED SIR, 

I LEAVE Edinburgh to-morrow morning, but 
could not go without troubling you with half a 
line, sincerely to thank you for the kindness, 
patronage, and friendship you have shown me. 
I often felt the embarrassment of my singular si 
tuation ; drawn forth from the veriest shades 
of life to the glare of remark ; and honoured by 
the notice of those illustrious names of my coun- 
try, whose works, while they are applauded to 
the end of time, will ever instruct and mend the 
heart. However the meteor-like novelty of my 
appearance in the world might attract notice, 
and honour me with the acquaintance of the 
permanent lights of genius and literature, those 
who are truly benefactors of the immortal na- 
ture of man ; I knew very well, that my utmos 
merit was far unequal to the task of preserviu 
that character when once the novelty was ov* 
I have made up my mind, that abuse, or almo 



266 



BURNS' WORKS. 



not surprise me in my 



iven neglect, will 
quarters. 

I have sent you a proof impression of Beu- 
go's work for me, done on Indian paper, as a 
trifling but sincere testimony with what heart- 
warm gratitude 1 am, &c. 



No. XLI. 



FROM DR. BLAIR. 

Argyle- Square, Edinburgh, ith May, 1787. 

DEAR SIR, 

I WAS favoured this forenoon with your very 
obliging letter, together ^vith an impression of 
your portrait, for which I return you my best 
thanks. The success you have met with I do 
not thmk was beyond your merits ; and if I 
have had any small hand in contributing to it, 
it gives me great pleasure. I know no wav in 
which literary persons, who are advanced in 
years, can do more service to the world, than 
in forwarding the eJfForts of rising genius, or 
bringing forth unknown merit from obscurity. 
I was the first person who brought out to the 
notice of the world, the poems of Ossian : first 
by the Fragments of Ancient Poetry, which I 
published, aud afterwards, by my setting on 
foot the undertaking for collecting and publish- 
ing the Works of Ossian ; and I have always 
considered this as a meritorious action of mv 
life. 

Your situation, as you say, was indeed very 
smgular ; and, in being brought out all at once 
from the shades of deepest privacy, to so great 
a share of public notice and observation, you 
had to stand a severe trial. I am hap})y that 
you have stood it so well ; and as far as I have 
known or heard, though in the midst of many 
temptations, without reproach to your charac- 
ter and behaviour. 

You are now, I presume, to retire to a more 
private walk of life ; and I trust, will conduct 
yourself there with industry, prudence, and ho- 
nour. You have laid the foundation for just 
public esteem. In the midst of those employ- 
ments, which your situation will render proper, 
you will not, I hope, neglect to pron^.ote that 
t-steem, by cultivating your genius, and attend- 
mg to such productions of it as may raise your 
character still higher. At the same time, be 
not in too great a haste to come forward. Take 
time and leisure to improve and mature your 
talents ; for on any second production you o^ive 
i*\e world, your fate, as a poet, will veiy much 
depend. There is, no doubt, a gloss of novelty 
which time wears off. As you very properly 
hint yourself, you are not to be surprised if, in 
your rural retreat, you do not find yourself sur- 
•ounded witl that glare of notice and appljfuse 
which here shone upon you. No man can be 
gooe* poet without being somewhat of a phi- 



losopher. He must lay his account, that i»ny 
one, who exposes himself to public observation, 
wdl occasionally meet with the attacks of illi- 
beral censure, which it is always best to over- 
look and despise. He will be inclined some- 
times to court retreat, and to disappear from 
public view. He will not affect to shine al- 
ways, that he may at proper seasons come forth 
with more advantage and energy. He will not 
think himself neglected if he 'be not always 
praised. I have taken the liberty, you see, of 
an old man, to give advice and make reflections 
which your own good sense will, I dare say, 
render unnecessary. 

As you mention your being just about to 
leave town, you are going, I should suppose, to 
Dumfriesshire, to look at some of Mr. Miller's 
farms. I heartily wish the offers to be mad<i 
you there niay answer; as I am persuaded you 
will not easily find a more generous and betta^ 
hearted proprietor to live under than IMr. Mil- 
ler. When you return, if you come this way, 
I will be happy to see you, and to know con- 
cernmg your future plans of life. You will 
find me, by the 22A of this month, not in mv 
house in Argyle Square, but at a country-hous^ 
at Restalrig, about a mile east from Edinburgh, 
near the Musselburgh road. Wishing you all 
success and prosperity, I am, with real regard 



ana esteem, 



Dear Sir, 

Yours sincerely, 

HUGH BLAIR. 



No. XLIL 

TO WILLIAM CREECH, Esq. 
{of Edinburgh,) London. 

Selkirk, 13th May, 1787. 

MY HONOURED FRIEND, 

Th e enclosed * I have just wrote, nearly ex 
tenipore, in a solitary inn in Selkirk, after a 
miserable wet day's riding. — I have been over 
most of East Lothian, Berwick, Roxburgh, aud 
Selkirkshires ; and next week I begin a tour 
through the north of England. Yesterday I 
dined with Lady Hariot, sister to my noble "pa- 
tron. Quern Deus conservet / I would write till 
I would tire you as much with dull prose as I 
dare say by this time you are with wretched 
verse, but I am jaded to death ; so, with a grate- 
ful farewell, 

I have the honour to be, 

Good Sir, yours sincerely. 



* Elegy on W. Creech ; see tJie Poetry. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



267 



No. XLIII. 



FROM DR. MOORE. 

GUfford Street, May 23, 1787. 

nSIAR SIR, 

I HAD the pleasure of your letter by Mr. 
Creech, and soon after he sent me the new edi- 
tion of your poems. You seem to think it in- 
cumbent on you to send to each subscriber a 
number of copies proportionate to his subscrip- 
tion money ; but you may depend upon it, few 
subscribers expect more than one copy, what- 
ever they subscribed. I must inform you, how- 
ever, that I took twelve copies for those subscri- 
bers for whose money you were so accurate as 
to send me a receipt ; and Lord Eglinton told 
nie he had sent for six copies for himself, as he 
wished to give five of them in presents. 

Some of the poems you have added in this 
last edition are beautiful, particularly the Win- 
ter Night, the Address to Edinburgh, Green 
grow the Hashes, and the two songs immediate- 
ly following ; the latter of which was exquisite. 
By the way, I imagine you have a peculiar ta- 
lent for such compositions, which you ought to 
indulge.* No kind of poetry demands more 
delicacy or higher polishing. Horace is more 
admired on account of his Odes than all his 
other writings. But nothing now added is 
equal to your Vision and Cotter^s Saturduy 
Night. In these are united fine imagery, na- 
tural and pathetic description, with sublimity of 
language and thought. It is evident that you 
already possess a great variety of expression and 
command of the English language ; you ought, 
therefore, to deal more sparingly for the future 
in the provincial d'.alect : — why should you, by 
using that, limit the number of your admirers lo 
those Vv'ho understand the Scottish, when yo i 
can extend it to all persons of taste who under- 
stand the English language ? In my opinion, 
you should plan some larger work than any you 
have as yet attempted. I mean, reflect upon 
some proper subject, and arrange the plan in 
your mind, without beginning to execute any 
part of it till you have studied most of the best 
English poets, and read a little more of history. 
The Greek and Roman stories you can read in 
some abridgment, and soon become master of 
the most brilliant facts, which must highly de- 
light a poetical mind. You shoidd also, and 
very soon may, become master of the heathen 
mythology, to which there are everlasting allu- 
sions in all the poets, and which in itself is 
charmingly fanciful. What will require to be 
studied with more attention, is modern history , 
that is, the history of France and Great Britain, 
from the beginning of Henry the Seventh's reign 
I know very well you have a mind capable of 
ittaining knowledge by a shorter process than 
M commonly used, and I am certain you are ca- 



* His subsequent compositions will bear testimony 
50 the aceuxaey of Dr. Moore's judgment 



pable of making a better use of it, when attain 
ed, than is generally done. 

I beg you will not give yourself the troubl* 
of writing to me when it is incojivemtnt, and 
make no apology, when you do write, for ha- 
ving postponed it ; be assured of this, however 
that I shall always be happy to hear from you 

I think my friend Mr. told me that yot 

had some poems in manuscript by you of a sati- 
rical and humorous nature (in which, by the 
way, I think you very strong), which your pru- 
dent friends prevailed on you to omit, particu- 
larly one called Somehody's Confession ; if you 
will entrust me with a sight of any of these, I 
will pawn my word to give no copies, and will 
be obliged to you for a perusal of them. 

I understand you intend to take a farm, and 
make the useful and respectable business of hus- 
bandry your chief occupation ; this, I hope, will 
not prevent your making occasional addresses tc 
the nine ladies who have shown you such fa- 
vour, one of whom visited you in the auld cla^ 
biggin. Virgil, before you, proved to the world 
that there is nothing in the business of husband- 
ry inimical to poetry ; and I sincerely hope that 
you may afford an example of a good poet being 
a successful farmer. I fear it will not be in my 
power to visit Scotland this season ; when I do, 
I'll endeavour to find you out, for I heartily 
wish to see and converse with you. If ever 
your occasions call you to this place, I make no 
doubt of your paying me a visit, and you may 
depend on a very cordial welcome from this fa- 
mily. I am, dear Sir, 

Your friend and obedient servant, 

J. MOORE. 



No. XLIV. 
TO MR. W. NICOLL, 
Master of the High-School, Edinburgh. 
Carlisle, June 1, 1787. 

kind, HONFST-HEARTED WILLIE. 

I'm sitten down here, after seven and forty 
miles ridin, e'en as fi)rjesket and fortiiaw'd as a 
forfoughten cock, to gie you some notion o' my 
land lowper-like stravaguin sin the sorrowfu' 
hour that I sheuk hands and parted wi' aula 
Reekie. 

My auld, ga'd gleyde o' a meere has huchy- 
all'd up hill and down brae, in Scotland and 
England, as teugh and birnie as a vera devil wi 
me.* It's true, she's as poor's a sang-maker 



* This mare was the Poet's favourite Jenny Geo* 
DES, of whom honourable and most humorous men- 
tion is made in a letter, inserted in Dr. Currie's edlticm, 
vol. 1. p. 165. 

This old and faithful servant of the Poet's was name<} 
by him, after the old woman, wno ni her zt'al against 
rehgious innovataoUj threw a stool at the Dean o\ 
Edinburgh's head, when he attempted in 1''37, to in 
troduee the Scottish Liturgy. " On Sunday, tne 23* 



268 



BURNS' WORKS. 



and as hard's a kirk, and tipper-taipers when 
she taks the gate, first .ike a lady's gentlewoman 
in a minuwae, or a hen on het girdle, but 
she's a yauld, poutherie Girran for a' that, and 
has a stomack like Willie Stalker's ineere that 
wad hae disgeested tumbler-wheels, for she'll 
whip me aff her five stimparts o' the best aits 
at a down-slttin and ne'er fash her thumb. 
When ance her ringbanes and spavies, her crucks 
and cramps, are fairly soupl'd, she beets to, 
beets to, and ay the hindmost hour the tightest. 
I could wager her price to a thretty pennies 
that, for twa or three wooks ridin at fifty mile 
a day, the deil-sticket a five gallopers acqueesh 
Clyde and Whithorn could cast saut on her tail. 

I hae dander'd owre a* the kintra frae Dum- 
bar to Selcraig, and hae forgather'd wi' mony a 
guid fallow, and monie a weelfar'd hizzie. I 
met wi' twa dink quines in particlar, ane o' 
them a sonsie, fine, fodgel lass, baith braw and 
bonie ; the tither was a clean- shankit, straught, 
tight, weelfar'd winch, as blithe's a lintwhite 
on a flowerie thorn, and as svveet and modest's 
u new blawn plumrose in a hazle shaw. They 
were baith bred to raainers by the beuk, and 
onie ane o' them had as muckle smeddum and 
rumblgumtion as the half o' some presbytries 
that you and I baith ken. They play'd me sik 
a deevil o' a shavie that I daur say if my hari- 
gals were turn'd out, ye wad see twa nicks i' the 
heart o' me like the mark o' a kail-whittle in a 
castock. 

I was gaun to write you a lang pystle, but, 
Gude forgie me, I gat mysel sae notouriously 
bitchify'd the day after kail-time that I can 
hardly stoiter but and ben. 

My best respecks to^ the guidwife and a' our 
common friens, especiall Mr. and Mrs Cruik- 
shank and the honest guidman o' Jock's Lodge. 

I'll be in Dumfries the morn gif the beast be 
to the fore, and the branks bide hale. 

Gude be wi' you, Willie ! 

Amen !— 



No. XLV. 



FROM MR. JOHN HUTCHINSON. 

Jamaica, St. Ann's, \Uh June, 1787. 

SIR, 

I RECEIVED yours, dated Edinburgh, 2d Ja- 
nuary, 1787, wherein you acquaint me you were 
engaged with Mr. Douglas of Port Antonio, for 



of July, the Dean of Edinburgh prepared to officiate 
in St. Giles's. The congregation continued quiet till 
the service began, when an old woman, impelled by 
sudden indignation, started up, and exclaiming aloud, 
' Villain! dost thou say the Mass at my lug !' threvv 
the stool on which she had been sitting, at the Dean's 
head. A wild uproar commenced that instant. The 
service was interrupted. The women invaded the 
desk with execrations and outcries, and the Dean dis- 
engaged himself from his surplice to escape trom their 
hands." — Laitig'a Hist, of Scotland, vol. iii. p. 122. 



three years, at thirty pounds sterling a-ycw; 
and am happy some unex])ected accidents inttr* 
vened that prevented your sailing with the ve» 
sel, as I have great reason to think Mr. Dou- 
glas's employ would by no means have answer- 
ed your expectations. I received a copy of your 
publications, for which I return you my thanks, 
and it is my own opinion, as well as that of such 
of my friends as have seen them, they are most 
excellent in their kind ; although some could 
have wished they had been in the English style, 
as they allege the Scottish dialect is now be- 
coming obsolete, and thereby the elegance and 
beauties of your poems are in a great measure 
lost to far the greater part of the community. 
Nevertheless there is no doubt you had suflUcient 
reasons for your conduct — perhaps the wishes 
of some of the Scottish nobility and gentry, your 
patrons, who will always relish their own old 
country style ; and your own inclinations for 
the same. It is evident from several passages 
in your works, you are as capable of writing in 
the English as in the Scottish dialect, and I am 
in great hopes your genius for poetry, from the 
specimen you have already given, will turn out 
both for profit and honour to yourself and 
country. I can by no means advise you now 
to think of coming to the West Indies, as, I 
assure you, there is no encouragement for a 
man of learning and genius here ; and am very 
confident you can do far better in Great Bri- 
tain, than in Jamaica. I am glad to hear my 
friends are well, and shall always be happy to 
hear from you at all convenient opportunities, 
wishing you success in all your undertakings. 
I will esteem it a particular favour if you will 
send me a copy of the other edition you are now 
printing. 

I am, with respect. 

Dear Sir, yours, &c. 

JOHN HUTCHINSON 



No. XL VI. 



TO MR. W. NICOLL. 

Mauchltne, June 18, 1787. 

MT DEAR FRIEND, 

I AM now arrived safe in my native country 
after a very agreeable jaunt, and have the plea- 
sure to find all my friends well. I breakfasted 
with your grey-headed, reverend friend, Mr. 
Smith ; and was highly pleased both with the 
cordial welcome he gave me, and his most ex^ 
cellent appearance and sterling good sense. 

I have been with Mr. Miller at Dalswinton, 
and am to meet him again in August. Fiotn 
my view of the lands and his reception of mv 
hardship, my hopes in that business are rather 
mended ; but still they are but slender. 

I am quite charmed with Dumfries folks- 
Mr. Burnside, the clergyman, in particular, ic 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



26S 



A man whom I shall ever gratefully remember ; 
and his wife, Gude forgie me, I had almost 
broke the tenth commandment on her account. 
Simplicity, elegance, good sense, sweetness of 
disposition, good humour, kind hospitality, are 
the constituents of her manner and heart ; in 
short — but if I say one word more about her, I 
shall be directly in love with her. 

I never, my friend, thought mankind very 
capable of any thing generous ; but the stateli- 
ness of the Patricians in Edinburgh, and the 
servility of my plebeian brethren, (who, per- 
haps, formerly eyed me askance), since I re- 
turned home, have nearly put me out of conceit 
altogether with my species. I have bought a 
pocket Milton which I carry perpetually about 
with me, in order to study the sentiments — the 
dauntless magnanimity ; the intrepid, unyield- 
ing independence, the desperate daring, and 
noble defiance of hardship, in that great per- 
sonage, Satan. 'Tis true, I have just now a 
little cash ; but I am afraid the star that hith- 
erto has shed its malignant, purpose-blasting 
rays full in my zenith ; that noxious planet so 
baneful in its influences to the rhyming tribe, I 

much dread it is not yet beneath ray horizon 

Misfortune dodges the path of human life ; the 
poetic mind finds itself miserably deranged in, 
and unfit for the walks of business ; add to all, 
that, thoughtless follies and hare-brained whims, 
like so many ignes fatui, eternally diverging 
from the right line of sober discretion, sparkle 
with step-bewitching blaze in the idly-gazing 
eyes of the poor heedless Bard, till, pop, " he 
falls like Lucifer, never to hope again." God 
grant this may be an unreal picture with re- 
spect to me ! but should it not, I have very 
little dependence on mankind. I will close my 
letter with this tribute my heart bids me pay 
you — the many ties of acquaintance and friend- 
ship which I have, or think I have in life, I 
have felt along the lines, and, d — n them ! they 
are almost all of them of such frail contexture, 
that I am sure they would not stand the breath 
of the least adverse breeze of fortune ; but from 
you, my ever dear Sir, I look with confidence 
for the Apostolic love that shall wait on me 
" through good report and bad report" — the 
love which Solomon emphatically says " Is 
strong as death." My compliments to Mrs. 
NicoU, and all the circle of our common friends. 

P, S. I shall be in Edinburgh about the latter 
esad of July. 



and Stirling, and am Jelighted with their ap- 
pearance : richly waving crops of wheat, barley, 
&c. but no harvest at all yet, except in one or 
two places, an old Wife's Ridge. — Yesterday 
morning I rode from this town ap the mean- 
dring Devon's banks to pay my respects to some 
Ayrshire folks at Harvieston. After breakfast, 
we made a party to go and see the famous Cau- 
dron-linn, a remarkable cascade in the Devon, 
about five miles above Harvieston ; and after 
spending one of the most pleasant days I ever 
had in my life, I returned to Stirling in the 
evening. They are a family, Sir, though I had 
not had any prior tie ; though they had not been 
the brother and sisters of a certain generous 
friend of mine, I would never forget them. I 
am told you have not seen them these sevei-al 
years, so you can have very little idea of what 
these young folks are now. Your brother is as 
tall as you are, but slender rather than other- 
wise ; and I have the satisfaction to inform you 
that he is getting the better of those consump- 
tive symptoms which I suppose you know were 
threatening him. His make, and particularly 
his manner, resemble you, but he will still have 
a finer face. (I put in the word still, to please 
Mis. Hamilton.) Good sense, modesty, and at 
the same time a just idea of that respect that 
man owes to man, and has a right in his turn 
to exact, are striking features in his character j 
and, what with me is the Alpha and the Ome- 
ga, he has a heart might adorn the breast of a 
poet ! Grace has a good figure and the look of 
health and cheerfulness, but nothing else re- 
markable in her jierson. I scarcely ever saw so 
striking a likeness as is between her and your 
little Beenie ; the mouth and chin particularly. 
She is reserved at first ; but as we grew bettp- 
acquainted, I was delighted with the native 
frankness of her manner, and the sterling sense 
of her observation. Of Charlotte, I cannot 
speak in common terms of admiration; she is 
not only beautiful, but lovely. Her form is ele- 
gant ; her features not regular, but they have 
tlie smile of sweetness and the settled compla- 
cency of good nature in the highest degiee ; and 
her complexion, now that she has happily re- 
covered her wonted health, is equal to Miss 
Burnet's. After the exercise of our riding to 
the Falls, Charlotte was exactly Dr. Donne's 



— ; *• Her pure and eloquent blood 

Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly 

wrought. 
That one would almost say her body thought.' 

Her eyes are fascinating ; at once exj)resslve ol 
good sense, tenderness, and a noble mind. 

1 do not give you all this account, my good 
Sir, to flatter you. I mean it to reproach you 
Such relations the first peer in the realm might 
own with pride ; then why do you not keep up 



No. XL VII. 

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. 

MY UEAR SIR, Stirling, 2Sth Aug, 1787. 

Here am I on my way to Inverness. I have more correspondence with these so amiable 
rambled over the rich, fertile car«es of Falkirk young folks ? I had a thousand questions' to 



je7c 



BURNS' WORKS. 



answer about you all : I had to describe the 
little ones with the minuteness of anatomy. 
They were highly delighted when I told them 
tliat John* was so good a boy, and so fine a 
scholar, and that Willie f was going on still 
very pretty ; but I have it in commission to 
tell her from them that beauty is a poor silly 
bauble without she be good. Miss Chalmers I 
bad left in Ediubui'gh, but I had the pleasure 
of meeting ^^'ith Mrs. Chalmers, only Lady 
M'Kenzie being rather a little alarmingly ill of 
a sore-throat, somewhat marr'd our enjoyment. 
I shall not be in Ayrshire for four weeks. 
My most respectful compliments to IMrs. Ha- 
milton, Miss Kennedy, and Dr. M'Kenzie. I 
shall probably write him from some stage or 
other 

I am ever, Sir, 

Yours most gratefully. 



No. XLVIII. 

TO MR. WALKER, BLATR OF 
ATHOI E 

Inverness, 5th Sept. 1787. 

MT DEAR SIR, 

I HAVE just time to write the foregoing, | 
and to tell you that it was (at least most part 
of it), the effusion of an half hour I spent at 
Bruar. I do not mean it was extempore, for I 
have endeavoured to brush it up as well as Mr. 

N 's chat, and the jogging of the chaise, 

would allow. It eases my heart a good deal, 
as rhyme is the coin with which a poet pays his 
debts of honour or gratitude. What I owe to 
the noble family of Athole, of the first kind, I 
•shall ever proudly boast ; what I owe of the 
last, so help me God in my hour of need, I 
shall never forget. 

The little " angel band ! — I declare I pray- 
ed for them very sincerely to-day at the Fall of 
Fyars. I shall never forget the fine family- 
piece I saw at Blair; the amiable, the truly 
noble Duchess, with her smiling little seraph 
:n her lap, at the head of the table ; the lovely 
" olive plants," as the Hebrew bard finely says, 
round the happy mother ; the beautiful Mis. 

G ; the lovely, sweet Miss C. &c. I wish 

I had the powers of Guido to do them justice ! 
My Lord Duke's kind hos|)itality, markedly 

kind, indeed -Mr G. of F -'s charms of 

conversation — Sir W. M 's friendship — in 

short, the recollection of all that polite, agree- 



able company, raises an honest glow in my 
som. 



, ♦ This is the " wee curlie Johnnie," mentioned in 

] Burns's (iedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. To this 
I gentleman, and every branch of the family, the Editor 
j IS indebted for mnc-h information respecting the poejt, 
I and very gratefully aeiinowledges the kindness shewn 
I to himself. 

t Now married to the Rev. John Tod, Minister of 

Mauchline. 

t " The humble Petition of Bruar- Water to the 

Duke of Athole." 



lv> 



No. XLIX. 
TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 17 th Sept. 17S7 

MY DEAR BROTHER, 

I ARRIVED here safe yesterday evening, aftet 
a tour of twenty-two days, and travelling near 
six J3jndred miles, windings included. My 
farthest stretch was about ten miles beyond In- 
verness. I went through the heart of the 
Highlands, by Crieff, Taymouth, the famous 
seat of Lord Breadalbane, down the Tay, 
among cascades and druidical circles of stones 
to Dunkeld, a seat of the Duke of Athole ; 
thence cross Tay, and up one of his tributary 
streams to Blair of Athole, another of the 
Duke's seats, where I had the honour of spend- 
ing nearly two days with his Grace and family ; 
thence many miles through a wild country, a- 
mong cliffs grey with eternal snows, and gloomy 
savage glens, till I crossed Spey and went down 
the stream through Strathspey, so famous in 
Scottish music, Badenoch, &c. till I reached 
Grant Castle, where I spent half a day with 
Sir James Grant and family ; and then crossed 
the country for Fort George, but called by the 
way at Cawdor, the ancient seat of Macbeath ; 
there I saw the identical bed in which, tradi- 
tion says, King Duncan was murdered: lastly, 
from Fort George to Inverness. 

I returned by the coast, through Nairn, For- 
res, and so on, to Aberdeen ; thence to Stone- 
hive, where James Burnes, from Montrose, met 
me by appointment. I spent two days among 
our relations, and found our aunts, Jean and 
Isabel, still alive, and hale old women. John 
Caiid, though born the same year with our fa- 
ther, walks as vigorously as I can ; they have 
had several letters from his son in New York. 
William Brand is likewise a stout old fellow : 
but further particulars I delay till I see you, 
which will be in two or three weeks. The 
rest of my stages ars not worth rehearsing ; 
warm as I was from Ossian's country, where I 
had seen his very grave, what cared I fur fish- 
ing towns or fertile carses f I slept at the fa- 
mous Brodie of Brodie's one night, and dined 
at Gordon Castle next day with the Duke, 
Duchess, and family. I am thinking to cause 
my old mare to meet me, by means of John 
Ronald, at Glasgow ; b it you shall hear farther 
from me before I leave Edinburgh. My duty 
and many compliments from the north, to my 
mother, and my brotherly comj)liments to the 
rest. I Lave been trying for a birth for Wil- 
liam, be; am not likely to be suecessful.— - 
FareweL. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



271 



No. L. 
FROM MR. R . 

81R, Ochtertyre, 22d October, 1787. 

'TwAS only yesterday I got Colonel Edraon- 
stoun's answer, that neither the words of 
Down the burn Davie, nor Dainty Davie (I 
forgot which you mentioned), were written by 
Colonel G. Crawford. Next time I meet him, 
I will inquire about his cousin's poetical talents. 

Enclosed are the inscriptions you requested, 
and a letter to Mr. Young, whose company and 
musical talents will, I am persuaded, be a feast 
to you.* Nobody can give you better hints, 
as to your present plan, than he. Receive 
also Omeron Cameron, which seemed to make 
such a deep impression on your imagination, 
that I am not without hopes it will beget some- 



* These Inscriptions, so much admired by Burns, 
'*re below :— 

WRITTEN IN 1768. 

yOR THE SALICTUM • AT OCHTERTYRE. 

Salubritatis voluptatisque causa. 

Hoc Salictum, 

Paludem olim infidam, 

Mihi meisque desicco et exorno. 

Hie, procul negotiis strepituque 

Innociiis deliciis 

SJlvulas inter nascentes reptandi, 

Apiumque labores suspiciendi, 

Fruor, 

Hie, si faxit Dews opt. max. 

Prope hunc fontem pellueidum. 

Cum quadam juventutis amico superstite, 

Ssepe conquiescam, senex, 

,»/fltentus modicis, meoque laetus ! 

Sin aliter — 

^vique paululum supersit, 

Vos silvulK, et amici, 

Caeteraque amcena, 

Valete, diuque letamini ! 



ENGLISHED. 

To improve both air and soil, 

{ dram and decorate this plantation of willows. 

Which was lately an unprofitable morass. 

Here, far from noise and strife, 

I love to wander, 

Wow fondly marking the progress of my trees, 

Now studying the bee, its arts and manners. 

Here, if it pleases Almighty God, 

May I often rest m tlie evening of life. 

Near that transparent fountain, 

With some survivini< friend of ray youtJ)| 

Contented witn a competency. 

And ha])py with my lot 
If vain these'humble wishes, 
And life draws near a close, 

Ve trees and friends, 

And whatever else is dear, 

Farewell, and long may ye flourish. 



%BOVE THE DOOR OF THE HOUSE. 

waiTiF.N IX 1775. 

MiHi meisque utinam contingad', 

Prope Taichi marginem, 

Avito in Agello, 

Rene vivere fausteque mori ! 



thing to delight the public in cvue time : and, 
no doubt, the circumstances of this little tale 
might be varied or extended, so as to make 
part of a pastoral comedy. Age or wounds 
might have kept Omeron at home, whilst his 
countrymen were in the field. His station 
may be somewhat varied, without losing his 
simplicity and kindness .... A group 
of characters, male and female, connected with 
the plot, might be formed from his family, or 
some neighbouring one of rank. It is not in- 
dispensable that the guest should be a man oi 
high station ; nor is the politicjil quarrel in 
which he is engaged, of much importance, un- 
less to call forth the exercise of generosity and 
faithfulness, grafted on patriarchal hospitality. 
To introduce state affairs, would raise the 
style above comedy ; though a small spice of 
them would season the converse of swains. 
Upon this head I cannot say more than to re- 
commend the study of the character of Eumzeus 
in the Odyssey, which, in Mr. Pope's transla- 
tion, is an exquisite and invaluable drawing 
from nature, that would suit some of our coun- 
try elders of the present day. 

There must be love in the plot, and a happy 
discovery ; and peace and pardon may be the 
reward of hospitality, and honest attachment 
to misguided principles. When you have once 
thought of a plot, and brought the story into 
form, Dr. Blacklock, or Mr. H. Mackenzie, 
may be useful in dividing it into acts and 
scenes ; for in these matters one must pay 
some attention to certain rules of the drama. 
These you could afterwards fill up at your lei- 
sure. But, whilst I presume to give a few 
well-meant hints, let me advise you to study 
the spirit of my namesake's dialogue, ♦ which 
is natural without being low, and, under the 
trammels of verse, is such as country people in 
their situations speak every day. You have 
only to bring down your own strain a very lit- 
tle. A great plan, such as this, would con- 
center all your ideas, which facilitates the exe- 
cution, and makes it a part of one's pleasure. 

I approve of your plan of retiring from din 
and dissipation to a farm of very moderate size, 
sufficient to find exercise for mind and body, 
but not so great as to absorb better things. 
And if some intellectual ptn-suit be well chosen 
and steadily pursued, it will be more lucrative 
than most farms, in this age of rapid improve- 
ment. 

Upon this subject, as your well-wisher and 
admirer, permit me to go a step fartler. Let 



ENGLISHED. 

On the banks of the Teith, 

In the small but sweet inheritance 

Of my fathers, 

May I and mine live in peace, 

And die in joyful hope ! 



These inscriptions, and th; translations, are j» tht 

aand-writing of Mr. R. 

i * Allan Ramsay, in the Gentle Shephe d. 



272 



BURNS' WORKS. 



those bright talents which the Ahnighty has 
bestowed on you, be henceforth employed to 
the noble purpose of supporting the cause of 
truth and virtue. An imagination so varied 
and forcible as yours, may do this in many dif- 
ferent modes ; nor is It necessary to be always 
serious, which you have been to good purpose ; 
good morals may be recommended in a comedy, 
or tfven in a song. Great allowances are due 
to the heat and inexperience of youth ; — and 
few poets can boast, like Thomson, of never 
having written a line, which, dying, they would 
wish to blot. In particular, I wish you to 
keep clear of the thorny walks of satire, which 
makes a man a hundred enemies for one friend, 
and is doubly dangerous when one is supposed 
to extend the slips and weaknesses of indivi- 
duals to their sect or party. About modes of 
faith, serious and excellent men have always 
differed ; and there are certain curious ques- 
tions, which may afford scope to men of meta- 
physical heads, but seldom mend the heart or 
temper. Whilst these points are beyond hu- 
man ken, it is sufficient that all our sects con- 
cur in their views of morals. You will forgive 
me for these hints. 

Well ! what think you of good lady C. ? 
It is a pity she is so deaf, and speaks so indis- 
tinctly. Her house is a specimen of the man- 
sions of our gentry of the last age, when hos- 
pitality and elevation of mind were conspicu- 
ous amidst plain fare and plain furniture. I 
shall be glad to hear from you at times, if it 
were no more than to show that you take the 
effusions of an obscure man like me in good 
part. I beg my best respects to Dr. and Mrs. 
Blacklock,* 

And am, Sir, 

Your most obedient humble servant, 

J. RAMSAY. 



Nc LI. 



FROxM MR. W 



Athole House, I3th September, 178T. 
Youa letter of the 5th reached me only on 
the Ilth; what awkward route it had taken 1 
know not ; but it deprived me of the pleasure 
of writing to you in the manner yoa proposed, 
as you must have left Dundee before a letter 
could possibly have got there. I hope your 
disappointment on being forced to leave us was 
as great as appeared from your expressions. 
This is the best consolation for the greatness 
of ours. I still think with vexation on that 
ill-timed indisposition which lost me a day's 
enjoyment of a man (I speak without flattery) 
possessed of those very dispositions and talents 

I most admire ; one 

. . . . You know how anxious the Duke 
was to have another day of you, and to let Mr. 
Dundas have the pleasure of your conversation 
as the best dainty with which he could enter- 
tain an honoured guest. You know likewise 
the eagerness the ladies showed to detain you ; 
but perhaps you do not know the scheme 
which they devised, with their usual fertility 
in resources. One of the servants was sent to 
your driver to bribe him to loosen or pull off a 
shoe from one of his horses, but the ambush 



before the fire, and plenty of innirlck, or Highland 
soup, prepared to conclude their meal The whole fa- 
mily and their guest ate heartily, and the evenin<; was 
spent as usual, in tellincf tales and singing songs be- 
side a cheerful fire. Bed-time came ; Omeron brushed 
the hearth, spread the cow hide upon it, and det^ired 
the stranger to lie down. 'I'he Earl wrapped his plaid 
about him, and slept sound on the hide, whilst the 
family betook themselves to rest in a corner of the 
same room. 



* TALE OF OMERON CAMERON. 

Iw one of the wars betwixt the Crown of Scotland 
and the Lords of the Isles, Alexander Stewart, Earl of 
Mar (a distinguished character in the fifteenth cen- 
tury), and Donald Stewart, Earl of Caithness, had the 
command of the royal army. They marched into 
Loehaber, with a view of attacking a body of M'Don- 
alds, commanded by Donald Ralioch, and' posted upon 
an arm of the sea which intersects that country. Hav- 
ing timely intelligence of their approach, the insur- 
gents got off precipitately to the opposite shf>re in their 
curaghs, or boats covered with skins. The king's 
troojK encamped m full security ; but the M'Donalds, 
returning about midnight, surprised them, killed the 
Earl of Caithness, and destroyed or dispersed the whole 
army. 

The Earl of Mar escaped in the dark, without any 
attendants, and made for the more hilly part of the 
country. In the course of his flight he came to the 
house of a poor man, whose name was Omeron Came- 
r^.n. The landlord welcomed his guest with the ut- 
most kindness ; but, as there was no meat in the house, 
he told his wife he would directly kill Mool Odhar, f 
to feed the stranger. " KMl our only cow !" said she, 
•' our own and our little '" "dren's principal support !" 
More attentive, however, ^^ the present call for hospi- 
tality, than to the remonstrances of his wife, or the 
future exigencies of his family, he killed the cow. 
The best and tendcrest parts weie immediately roasted 

* Moo) Odhar, i. t. the brown humble cow. 



Next morning they had a plentiful breakfast, and at 
his departure his guest asked Cameron, if he knew 
whom he had entertained? " You may probably," 
answered he, ♦' be one of the king's officers ; but who- 
ever you are, you came here in distress, and here it 
was my duty to protect you. To what my cottage 
afforded, you are most welcome." — " Your guest, 
then," replied the other, «' is the Earl of Mar : and if 
hereafter you fall into any misfortune, fail not to come 
to the castle of Kildrumiriie." — " My blessing be with 
you I I'oble stranger," said Omeron; " if 1 am ever in 
distress, you shall soon see me." 

The royal army was soon after re-assembled ; and the 
insurgents, finding themselves unable to make head 
against it, dispersed. The M'Donalds, however, got 
notice that Omeron had been the Earl's host, and 
forced him to fly the country. He came with his wife 
and children to the gate of Kildrummie C;istle, and 
required admittance with a confidence vvhich hardly 
corresponded with his habit and appearance. The 
porter told him rudely, his Lordship was at dinner, and 
must not be disturbed. He became noisy and niipo - 
tunate: at last his name was announced. Upon hear- 
ing that it was Omeron Cameron, the Earl started from 
his seat, and is siiid to have exclaimed in a sort of poe- 
j tJcal stanza, " I was a night in his house, and fared 
most plentifully ; but naked of clothes was my bed 
I Omeron from Breugach is an excellent fellow!" Ht 
! was introduced into the great hall, and received with 
j the welcome he deserved. Upon hearing ho-v he had 
I been treated, the Earl gave hiin a four merk land neai 
I the castle; and it is said there are still in the country 
a number of Camerons descended of this Highland 
1 Euma^us. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



27S 



failed. Proh mirum ! The driver was incor- 
Tuptiblt, Your verses have given us much 
delight, and I think will produce their proper 
effect,* They produced a powerful one im- 
mediately ; for the morning after I read them, 
we all set out in procession to the Bruar, where 
none of the ladies had beef i these seven or 
eight years, and again enjoyed them there. 
The passages we most admired are the descrip- 
tion of the dying trouts. Of the high fall 
" twisting strength," is a happy picture of the 
upper part. The characters of the birds, 
" mild and mellow," is the thrush itself. The 
benevolent anxiety for their happiness and safe- 
ty I highly approve. The two stanzas be- 
ginning " Here haply too" — darkly dashing is 
ioist descriptively Osslanic. 



Here I cannot deny myself the pleasure of 
mentioning an Incident which happened yester- 
day at the Bruar. As we passed the door of a 
most miserable hovel, an old woman curtsied 
to us with locks of such poverty, and such con- 
tentment, that each of us involuntarily gave her 
xome money. She was astonished, and in the 
confusion of her gratitude, invited us In. Miss 
C. and I, that we might not hurt her delicacy, 
entered — but, good God, what wretchedness! 
It was a cow-house — her own cottage had been 
burnt last winter. The poor old creature stood 
perfectly silent — looked at Miss C. then to the 
money, and burst Into tears — Miss C. joined 
her, and, with a vehemence of sensibility, tooiv 
out her purse, and emptied it Into the old wo- 
man's lap. What a charming scene ! — A sweet 
|iccomplished girl of seventeen In so angelic a 
sitiijition ! Take your pencil and paint her in 

yiiur most glowing tints Hold her up amidst 

the darkness of this scene of human woe, to the 
icy dames that flaunt through the gaieties of life, 
withc^ut ever feeling one generous, one great 
oiiiiiri(m. 

Two days after you left us, I went to Tay- 
mouth. It is a charming place, but still I 
ihink art has been too busy. Let me be your 
Cicerone for two days at Dunkeld, and you 
will acknowledge that in the beauties of naked 
nature we are not surpassed. The loch, the 
Gothic arcade, and the fall of the hermitage, 
g;ive me most delight. But I think the last 
Lis not been taken proper advantage of. The 
hermitage is too much in the common-pluce 
Ktyle. Every body expects the couch, the book- 
press, a.d the hairy gown. The Duke's Idea 
I think better. A rich and elegant apartment 
is an excellent contrast to a scene of Alpine 
horrors, 

I must now beg your permission (unless you 
have some other design) to have your verses 
printed. They appear to me extremely cor- 



* " The humble petition of Bruar. Water to the 
Duke of Athole." 



rect, and some particular stanzas wocild give 
universal pleasure. Let me know, however, if 
you Incline to give them any farther touches. 

Were they in some of the public papers, wa 
could more easily disseminate them among our 
friends, which many of us are anxious to do. 

When you pay your promised visit to the 
Braes of Ochtertyre, Mr. and Mrs. Graham of 
Balgowan beg to have the pleasure of conduct- 
ing you to the bower of Bessy Sell and Mary 
Gray, which Is now in their possession. The 
Duchess would give any consideration for an- 
other sight of your letter to Dr. Moore ; we 
must fall upon some methoii ci procuring it for 
her. I shall enclose this to our mutual friend 

Dr. B , who may forward it. I shall be 

extremely happy to hear from you at your first 
leisure. Enclose your letter In a cover address- 
ed to the Duke of Athole, Dunkeld. 
God bless you, 

J W , 



No. LIL 



FROM MR. A- 



M- 



81 R, 6th Octoher, 1787. 

Having just arrived from abroad, I had your 
poeius put into my hands : the pleasure I re- 
ceived in reading them, has induced me to so- 
licit your liberty to publish them amongst a 
number of our countrymen in America, (tc 
which place I shall shortly return), and where 
they will be a treat of such excellence, that i 
would be an Injury to your merit and their feel- 
ing to prevent their appearing In public. 

Receive the following hastily-written lines 
from a well-wisher. 

Fair fa' your pen, my dainty Rob, 

Your leisom way o' writing. 
Whiles, glowring o'er your warks T sob, 

Whiles laugh, whiles downright greeting 
Your sonsle tykes may charm a chiel. 

Their words are wondrous bonny. 
But guid Scotch drink the truth does ScT 

It is as guid as ony 

Wi' you this day. 

Poor Mailie, troth, I'll nae but think. 

Ye did the poor thing wrang, 
To leave her tetlier'd on the brink 

Of stank sae wide and lang ; 
Her dying words upbraid ye sair, 

Cry fye on your neglect ; 
Guid faith ! gin ye had got play fail 

This deed had stretch'd your neck 

That mournfu' day. 

But, wae's me, how dare I fin* faut» 
Wi' sic a winsome bardie. 



274* 

Wli;i great m/ sina's begun to daut, 

And tak' him by the gardie ; 
jt sets na ony lawland chiel, 

Like you to verse or rhyme, 
For few like you can fley the de'il, 

And skelp auld wither'd Time 
On ony day. 

It's fair to praise ilk canty callan, 

Be he of purest fame, 
If he but tries to raise as Allan, 

Auld Scotia's bonny name ; 
To you, therefore, in humble rhyme, 

Better 1 canna gi'e. 
And tho' it's but a swatch of thine, 

Accept these lines frae me, 

Upo' this day. 

Frae Jock o' Groats to bonny Tweed, 

Frae that e'en to the line, 
In ilka place where Scotsmen bleed, 

There shall your hardship shine ; 
Ilk honest chiel wha reads your buick. 

Will there aye meet a blither, 
Fe lang may seek, and lang will look. 

Ere he fin' sic anither 

On ony day 

Feart that my cruicket verse should spairge 

Some wark of wordie mak', 
I'se nae mair o' this head enlarge, 

But now my farewell tak' : 
Lang may you live, lang may you write, 

And sing like English Weischell, 
This prayer I do myself indite. 

From yours still, A M , 

This very day. 



BURNS* WORKS. 



up the ghost of Joseph M'D. to infuse into ous 
bard a portion of his enthusiasm for those ne- 
glected airs, which do not suit the fastidious 
musicians of the present hour. But if it be 
true that Corelli (whom I looked on as the 
Homer of music) is out of date, it is no proof 
of their taste ; — this, however, is going out of 
my province. You can show Mr. Burns the 
manner of singing these same luinigs ; and, if 
he can humour it in words, I do not despair ol 
seeing one of them sung upon the stage, in the 
original style, round a napkin. 

I am very sorry we are likely to meet so sel- 
dom in this neighbourhood. It is one of the 
greatest drawbacks that attends obscurity, that 
one has so few opportunities of cultivating ac- 
quaintances at a distance. I hope, however, 
some time or other, to have the pleasure of 
beating up your quarters at Erskine, and oi 
hauling you away to Paisley, &c. ; meanwhile 
I beg to be remembered to Messrs. Boog and 
Mylne. 

If Mr. B. goes by , give him a billet on 

our friend Mr. Stuart, who, I presume, doea 
not dread the frown of his diocesan. 
I am. Dear Sir, 
Your most obedient humble servant, 

J. RAMSAY 



No. LIIL 
FROM MR. J. RAMSAY, 

TO THE 

REVEREND W. YOUNG, at Erskine. 

DEAR SIR, Ochtertyre, 22d Oct. 1787. 

Allow me to introduce Mr. Burns, whose 
poems, I dare say, have given you much plea- 
sure. Upon a personal acquaintance, I doubt 
sot, you will relish the man as much as his 
works, in which there is a rich vein of intel- 
lectual ore. He has heard some of our High- 
land luiniys or songs played, which delighted 
him so much that he has made words to one 
or two of them, which will render these more 
popular. As he has thought of being in your 
quarter, I am persuaded you will not think it 
labour lost to indulge the poet of nature with a 
tample of those sweet artless melodies, which 
only want to be married (in Mihon's phrase) 
to congenial words. I wish we could conjure 



No. LIV. 
FROM MR. RAMSAY, 

TO 

DR. BLACKLOCK. 

DEAR SIR, Ochtertyre, 21 th Oct. 1787. 

I RECEIVED yours by Mr. Burns, and givs 
you many thanks for giving me an opportunity 
of conversing with a man of his calibre. He 
will, I doubt not, let you kno'\j>r what passed be- 
tween us on the subject of my hints, to which I 
have made additions, in a letter sent him t'other 
day to your care. 



You may tell Mr. Burns, when you see him, 
that Colonel Edmonstoune told me t'other day, 
that his cousin. Colonel George Crawford, was 
no poet, but a great singer of songs ; but that 
his eldest brother Robert (by a former marriage) 
had a great tui'n that way, having written the 
words of The Mush ahoon Traquair, and 
Tweedslde. That the Mary to whom it was 
addressed was Mary Stewart of the Castlemilk 
family, afterwards wife of Mr. John Relches. 
The Colonel never saw Robert Crawford, though 
he was at his burial fifty-live years ago. He 
was a pretty young man, and had lived ling in 
1 ranee. Lady Ankervilie is his niece, and may 
know more of his poetical vein. An epitaph 



CORRESPONDENCii. 



275 



monger like me might moralize upon the vanity 
of life, and the vanity of those sweet effusions. 
— But I have hardly room to offer my best com- 
pliments to Mrs. Blacklock ; and I am, 
Dear Doctor, 
Your most obedient humble servant, 
J. RAMSAY 



No. LV. 



FROM MR. JOHN MURDOCH. 

«y DEAR SIR, London., 23th Oct. 1787. 

As my friend, Mr. Brown, is going from this 
place to your neighbourhood, I embrace the op- 
portunity of telling you that I am yet ahve, to- 
'erably well, and always in expectation of being 
better. By the much-valued letters before me, I 
see that it was my duty to have given you this in- 
telligence about three years and nine months ago ; 
and have nothing to allege as an excuse but that 
we poor, busy, bustling bodies in London, are so 
much taken up with the various pursuits in which 
we are here engaged, that we seldom think of 
any person, creature, place, or thing, that is ab- 
sent. But this is not altogether the case with 
me ; for I often think of you, and Hornie, and 
Russel, and an unfatkomcd depth, and lowan 
brunstane, all in the same minute, although you 
and they are (as I suppose) at a considerable dis- 
tance. I flatter myself, h(#vever, with the pleas- 
ing thought, that you and I shall meet some 
time or other either in Scotland or England. 
If ever you come hither, jou will have the satis- 
faction of seeing your poems relished by the Ca- 
ledonians in London, full as much as they can 
be by those of Edinburgh, We frequently re- 
jieat some of your verses in our Caledonian so- | 
ciety ; and you may believe, that I am not a j 
little vain that I have had some share in culti- 
vating such a genius. I was not absolutely cer- 
tain that you were the author, till a few days a- 
go, when I made a visit to iNIrs. Hill, Dr. 
M'Comb's eldest daughter, who lives in town, 
and who told me that she was informed of it by 
a letter from her sister in Edinburgh, with whom 
yoH had been in company when in that capitah 

Pray let me know if you have any intention 
of visiting this huge, overgrown metropolis ? It 
would afford matter for a large poem. Here you 
would have an opportunity of indulging your 
vein in the study of mankind, perhaps to a great- 
er degree than in any city upon the face of the 
globe ; for the inhabitants of London, as you 
kuow are a collection of all nations, kindreds, 
and tongues, who make it, as it were, the centre 
of their commerce. 



took such uncommon pains to instil into your 
minds from your earliest infancy ' May yon live 
as he did ! if you do, you can never be unhappy. 
I feel myself grown serious all at once, and af 
fected in a manner I cannot describe. I shall 
only add, that it is one of the greatest pleasures 
I promise myself before I die, that of seeing the 
family of a man whose memory I revere more 
than that of any person that ever I was ac- 
quainted with. 

I am, my dear Friend, 

Yours sincerely, 

JOHN MBRDOCH. 



No. LVI. 
FROJI MR. - 



SIR, Gordon Castle, S\st October, ITS 7. 

If you were not sensible of your fault as well 
as of your loss in leaving this place so suihLenly, 
I should condemn you to starve upon cnuld kail 
for ae towmont at least ; and as for Dick La- 
tine,* your travelling companion, without ban- 
ning him wV «' the curses contained in your let- 
ter, (which he'll no value a bawbee), I should 
give him nought but Stra^bogie castocks to chew 
for sax ouks, or aye until he was as sensible of 
his error as you seem to be of yours. 



Present my respectful compliments to Mrs. 
Burns, to my dear friend Gilbert, and all the 
rest o'^ her amiable children. May the Father 
of the aniverse bless you all with those princi- 
ples and dispositioi. that the best of parents 



Your song I showed without producing the 
author ; and it was judged by the Duchess to be 
the production of Dr. Beattie. I sent a copy of 
it, by her Grace's desire, to a Mrs. M'Pherson 
in Badenoch, who sings Morag and all other 
Gaelic songs in great perfection. I have re- 
corded it likewise, by Lady Charlotte's desire, 
in a book belonging to her ladyship, where it is 
in company with a great many other poems and 
verses, some of the writers of which are no less 
eminent for their political than for their poetical 
abdities. When the Duchess was informed that 
you were the author she wished you had written 
the verse's in Scotch. 

Any letter directed to me here will come t« 
hand safely, and, if sent under the Duke's cover, 
it will likewise come free ; that is, as long as the 
Duke is in this country. 

I am. Sir, yours sincerely. 



No LVIL 

FROM THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. 

SIR, Linshnrt, Mth Nov. 1787. 

Your kind return without date, but of post- 
mark October 25th, came to my hand only this 
day ; and. to testify my punctuality to my po^ 



* Mr. Nicou 



276 



BURNS' WORKS. 



etic engagement, I sit down immirdiately to an- 
swer it in kind. Your acknowledgment of ray 
poor but jui»t encomiums on your surprising ge- 
nius, and your opinion of my rhyming excur- 
sions, are lioth, 1 think, by far too high. The 
difference between our two tracts of education 
and ways of life is entirely in your favour, and 
gives you the preference every manner of way. 
* know a classical education will not create a 
versifying taste, but it mightily improves and as- 
sists it ; and though, where both these meet, 
there may sometimes be ground for approbation, 
yet where taste appears single, as it were, and 
neither cramped nor supported by acquisition, 
I will always sustain the justice of its prior claim 
to applause. A small portion of taste, this way, 
1 have had almost from childhood, especially in 
the old Scottish dialect : and it is as old a thing 
as I remember, my fondness for Christ hirk d' 
the Green, which I had by heart ere I was 
twelve years of age, and which, some years ago, 
I attempted to turn into Latin verse. While I 
was young, I dabbled a good deal in these things ; 
but, OQ getting the black gown, I gave it pretty 
much over, till my daughters grew up, who, be- 
ing all good singers, plagued me for words to 
some of their favourite tunes, and so extorted 
these effusions, which have made a public appear- 
ance beyond my expectations, and contrary to 
my intentions, at the same time that I hope there 
is nothing to be found in them uncharacter- 
istic, or unbecoming the cloth, which I would 
always wish to see respected. 

As to the assistance you propose from me in 
the ur.dertaking you are engaged in, * I am sorry 
I cannot give it so far as I could wish, and you, 
perhaps, expect. My daughters, who were my 
only intelligencers, are all /br/s familiate, and 
the old woman their mother has lost that taste. 
There are two from my own pen, which I might 
give you, if worth the while. One to the old 
Scotch tune of Dumbarton's Drums. 

The other perhaps you have met with, as 
vour noble friend the Duchess has, I am told, 
hoard of it. It was squeezed out of me by a 
brother parson in her neighbourhood, to accom- 
modate a new Highland reel for the Marquis's 
birth-day, to the stanza of 

" Tune your fiddles, tune them sweetly," &c. 

If this last answer your purpose, you may 
have it from a brother of mine, Mr. Jdmes Skin- 
ner, writer in Edinburgh, who, I believe, can 
give the music too. 

There is another humorous thing, I have heard 
said to be done by the Catholic priest Geddes, 
and which hit my taste much : 

*■ Tbiire was a wee wifeikie was coming frae the 

fair. 
Had gotten a little drapikie, which bred her 

meikle care ; 



It took upo' the wifie's heart, and she began tc 

spew. 
And quo' the wee wifeikie, I wish I binna fou 
I wish, 8fc. 8fc. 

I have heard of another new composition, Dy 
a young ploughman of my acquaintance, that I 
am vastly pleased with, to the tune of The hu- 
monrs of Glen, which I fear won't do, as the 
music, I am told, is of Irish original. I have 
mentioned these, such as they are, to show my 
readiness to oblige you, and to contribute my 
mite, if I could, to the patriotic work you have 
in hand, and which I wish all success to. You 
have only to notify your mind, and what you 
want of the above shall be sent you. 

Meantime, while you are thus publidv, 1 
may say, employed, do not sheath your own 
proper and piercing weapon. From what I 
have seen of yours already, I am inclined to 
hope for much good. One lesson of virtue an<i 
morality, delivered in your amusing style, and 
from such as you, will operate more than dozens 
would do from such as me, who shall be told it 
is our employment, and be never more minded : 
whereas, from a pen like yours, as being one of 
the many, what comes will be admired. Ad- 
miration will produce regard, and regard will 
leave an impression, especially when example 
O'-es along. 

Now binna s;%lng I'm ill bred. 
Else, by my troth, I'll not be glad 
For cadgers, ye have heard it said. 
And sic like fry. 
Maun aye be harland in their trade, 
And sae maun I. 

Wishing you from my poet-pen, all success, 
and in my other character, all happiness and 
heavenly direction, 

I remain, with esteem, 

Your sincere friend, 

JOHN SKINNER. 



• " A plan of publishing a complet« collection of 
«5«otti3h Songs," &c 



No. Lvni. 

FROM MRS. ROSS. 

SIR, Kilravock Castle, SOth Nov. 1787. | 

I HOPE you will do me the justice to believe, 
that it was no defect in gratitude for your 
punctual performance of your parting promise, 
that has made me so long in ackn* ivledging it, 
but merely the difficulty I had in getting the 
Highland songs you wished to have, accnratelv j 
noted ; they are at last enclosed : but how shal. | 
I convey along with them tliose graces they ac- 
quired from the melodious voice of one of the 
fair spirits of the hill of Kildrummie ! These I 
must leave to your imagination to supply. It 
has powers sufficient to transport you to hei 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



S77 



%ide, to recall her accents, and to make them 
still viprate in the ears of memory. To her 1 
am indebted for getting the enclosed notes. 
They are clothed with " thoughts that breathe, 
and words that burn." These, however, being 
in an unknown tongue to you, you must again 
have recourse to that same fertile imagination 
of yo'.irs to interpret them, and suppose a lover's 
description of the beauties of an adored mistress 
— why did I s'ky unknown ? The language of 
love is an univei'sal one, that seems to have 
escaped the confusion of Babel, and to be un- 
derstood by all nations. 

I rejoice to find that you were pleased with 
so many things, persons, and places iu your 
northern tour, because it leads me to hope .vou 
may be induced to i-evisit them again. That 

the old u.stle of K k, and its inhabitants, 

were amongst these, adds to my satisfaction. I 
am even vain enough to admit your very flat- 
tering application of the line of Addison's ; at 
any rate, allow me to believe that " friendship 
will maintain the ground she has occupied" iu 
both our hearts, in «pite of absence, and that, 
when we do meet, it will be as acquaintance of 
a score of years standing ; and on this footing, 
consider me as interested in the future course of 
your fame, so splendidly commenced. Any 
communications of the progress of your muse 
will be received with great gratitude, and the 
fire of your genius will have power to warm, 
even us, fi'ozen sisters of the north. 

The friends of K k and K e 

unite in cordial regards to you. When you in- 
cline to figure either in your idea, suppose some 
of us reading your poems, and some of us singing 
your songs, and my little Hugh looking at your 
picture, and you'll seldom be wrong. We re- 
member Mr. N. with as much good will as we 
do any body, who hurried Mr. Burns from us. 

Farewell, Sir, I can only contribute the 
widow's mite to the esteem and admiration ex- 
cited by your merits and genius, but this I give 
is she did, with all my heart— being sincerely 
yours, E. R. 



No. LIX. 



TO 



-DALRYMPLE, Esq. OF 
ORANGEFIELD. 



ntAR SIR, Edinburgh, 1787. 

I SUPPOSE tne devil is so elated with his suc- 
cess with you, that he is determined by a coup 
de main to complete his purposes on you all at 
once, in making you a poet. I broke open the 
letter you sent me ; hummed over the rhymes ; 
and, as I saw they were extempore, said to my- 
self they were very well : but when I saw at 
the bottom a name that I shall ever value with 
grateful respect, " I gapit wide but naething 
«py.k." I was nearly as much struck as the 



trientls r>f Job, of affliction-bearing memory, 
when they sat down with him seven days and 
seven nights, and spake not a word. 



I am naturally of a superstitious cast, and as 
soon as my wonder-scared imagination regained 
its consciousness and resumed its functions, I 
cast about what this mania of yours might por- 
tend. My foreboding ideas had the wide stretch 
of possibility ; and several events, great in their 
magnitude, and important in their consequences, 
occurred to my fancy. The downfal of the 
conclave, or the crushing of the cork rumps ; a 

ducal coronet to Lord George G and ths 

pvotestant interest ; or St. Peter's keys to . . 

You want to know how I come on. I am 
just in statu quo, or, not to insult a gentleman 
with my Latin, *' in auld use and wont." The 
noble Earl of Glencairn took me by the hand 
to-day, and interested himself in my concerns, 
with a goodness like that benevolent being, 
whose image he so richly bears. He is a 
stronger proof of the immortality of the soul, 
than any that philosophy ever produced. A 
mind like his can never die. Let the worship- 
ful squire, H. L. or the reverend Mass J. M. 
go into their primitive nothing. At best they 
are but ill-digested lumps of chaos, only one of 
them strongly tinged with bituminous particles 
and sulphureous effluvia. But my noble pa- 
tron, eternal as the heroic swell of magnanimi- 
ty, and the generous throb of benevolence, shall 
look on with princely eye at " the war of ele- 
ments, the wreck of matter, and the crash of 
worlds." 



The following fragments are all that now ex- 
ist of twelve or fourteen of the finest letters 
that Burns ever wrote. Li an evil hour, the 
originals were thrown into the fire by the 
late Airs. Adair of Scarborough ; the Char- 
lotte so often mentioned in this correspon- 
dence, and the lady to whom " The Banks 



of the Devon" is addressed. 



No. LX. 



E. 



TO MISS MARGARET CHALMERS, 

(now MRS. HAY, OP EDINBaRGH). 

Sept. 26, 1787. 
I SEND Charlotte the first number of the 
songs ; I would not wait for the second num- 
ber ; I hate delays in little marks of friend- 
ship, as I bate dissimulation in the language of 
the heart. I am determined to pay Charlotte 
a poetic compliment, if I could hit on some 
glorious old Scotch air, in number second,* 

* Of the Scots Musical Museum. 



278 



BURNS' WORKS. 



You will see a small attempt on a shred of pa- 
per in the hook ; but tliough Dr. Blacklock 
comnioncled it very liii^hly, I am not just satis- 
6ed with it myself. I intend to make it de- 
scription of some kind : the whining cant of 
love, except in real passion, and by a masterly 
•jand, is to me as insufferable as the preaching 
c«nt of old Father Smeaton, Whig-minister at 
Kilmaurs. Darts, flames, cupids, loves, graces, 
and all that farrago, are just a Mauchline 
. — a senseless rabble. 

I got an excellent poetic epistle yesternight 
from the old, venerable author of Tullochgo- 
lum, John of Badeuyon, &c. I suppose you 
know he is a clergy tjian. It is by far the finest 
poetic compliment I ever got. 1 will send you 
a copy of it. 

I go on Thursday or Friday to Dumfries to 
wait on Mr. Miller about his farms. — Do tell 
that to Lady M'Kenzie, that she may give me 
credit for a little wisdom. " I wisdom dwell 
with prudence." What a blessed fire-side ! 
How happy should I be to pass a winter even- 
ing under their venerable roof! and smoke a 
pipe of tobacco, or drink water-gruel with them ! 
What solemn, lengthened, laughter-quashing 
gravity of phiz ! What sage remarks on the 
good-for-nothing sons and daughters of indis- 
cretion and folly ! And what frugal lessons, as 
we straitened the fire-side circle, on the uses of 
the poker and tongs ! 

Miss N. is very well, and begs to be remem- 
bered in the old way to you. I used all my 
eloquence, all the persuasive flourishes of the 
hand, and heart-melting modulation of periods 
in my power, to urge her out to Herveiston, 
but all in vaiu. My rhetoric seems quite to 
have lost its effect on the lovely half of man- 
kind. I have seen the day — but that is a " tale 
of other years."-— In my conscience I believe 
that my heart has been so oft on fire that it is 
absolutely vitrified. I look on the sex with 
something like the admiration with which I re- 
gard the starry sky in a frosty December night. 
I admire the beauty of the Creator's workman- 
ship ; I am charmed with the wild but grace- 
ful eccentricity of their motions, and — wish 
them good night. I mean this with respect to 
a certain passj^n dont f ai eu Vhonneur d'etre 
un miserable esclave : as for friendship, you 
and Charlotte have given me pleasure, perma- 
nent pleasure, " which the world cannot give, 
nor take away," I hope ; and which will out- 
last the heavens and the earth. 



our family), I am determined, if rt.y Dumfiiet 
business fail me, to return into partnership with 
him, and at our leisure take another farm ia 
the neighbourhood. I assure you I look for 
high compliments from you and Charlotte on 
this very sage instance of my unfathomable, iu- 
comprehensibK; wisdom. Talking of Charlotte, 
I must tell her that I have to the best of my 
power, paid her a poetic compliment, now com- 
pleted. The air is admirable ? true old High- 
land. It was the tune of a Gaelic song which 
an Inverness lady sung me when I was there j 
and I was so charmed with it that I begged het 
to write me a set of it from her singing ; for it 
had never been set before. I am fixed that it 
shall go in Johnson's next number; so Chi..- 
lotte and you need not spend jour precious timt 
in contradicting me. I vvon't say the poetry is 
first-rate ; though I am convinced it is very 
well : and, what is not always the case with 
compliments to ladies, it is not only sincere but 
just, 

(^Here follows the song of *' The Baiiks of the 
Devon") 



Without date. 
I HAVE been at Dumfries, and at one visit 
more shall be decided about a farm in that coun- 
tiy. I am rather hopekss in it ; but as my 
brother is an excellent farmer, and is, besides, 
an exceedini^ly prudent, sober nun, ((jualities 
which are only a younger brother's fortune m 



Edinburgh, Nov. 21, 1787. 
I HAVE one vexatious fault to the kindly- 
welcome, well filled sheet which I owe to your 
and Charlotte's goodness — it contains too much 
sense, sentiment, and good-spelling. It is im- 
possible that even you two, whom I declare to 
my God, I will give credit for any degree of 
excellence the sex are capable of attaining, it is 
impossible you can go on to correspond at that 
rate ; so like those who, Shenstone says, retire 
because they have made a good speech, I shall 
after a few letters hear no more of you. I in- 
sist that you shall write whatever comes first : 
what you see, what you read, what you hear, 
what you admire, what you dislike, trifles, bag- 
atelles, nonsense ; or to fill up a corner, e'en 
put down a laugh at full length. Now none 
of your polite hints about flattery : I leave that 
to your lovers, if you have or shall have any ; 
though thank heaven I have found at last two 
girls who can be luxuriantly happy in their 
own minds and with one another, without that 
commonly necessary appendage to female bliss, 

A LOVER. 

Charlotte and you are just two favourite rest- 
ing places for my soul in her wanderings through 
the weary, thorny wilderness of this world — 
God knows 1 am ill-fitted for the struggle : \ 
glory in being a Poet, and I want to be thought 
a wise man — I would fondly be generous, and 
I wish to be rich. After all, I am afraid I am 
a lost subject. " Some folk hae a hantle n 
fauts, an' I'm but a ne'er-do-weel." 

Afternoon. — To close the melancholy reflec- 
tions at the end of last sheet, I shall just add a 
jjiece of devotion commonly known in Cai'rick, 
by the title of the " Wabster's grace." 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



279 



** Rome say we're fhieves, and e'en sae are we, 
Some say we he, and e'en sae do we ! 
Guide forgie us, and I nope sae will he ! 
Up aua to your looms, lads." 



Edinburgh, Dec. 12, 1787. 

1 AM here under the care of a surgeon, with 
a bruised limb extended on a cushion ; and the 
tints of my mind vying with the livid horror 
preceding a midnight thunder-storm. A drun- 
ken coachman was the cause of the first, and 
incomparably the lightest evil ; misfortune, bo- 
dily constitution, hell and myself, have formed 
a " Quadruple Alliance" to guarantee the other. 
I got my fall on Saturday, and am getting slow- 
ly better. 

I have taken tooth and nail to the bible, and 
am got through the five books of Moses, and 
half way in Joshua. It is really a glorious 
book. I sent for my bookbinder to-day, and 
ordered him to get me an octavo bible in sheets, 
the best paper and print in town ; and bind it 
v»rith all the elegance of his craft. 

I would give my best song to my worst ene- 
my, I mean the mei-it of making it, to have you 
and Charlotte by me. You are angelic crea- 
tures, and would pour oil and wine into my 
wounded spirit. 

I enclose you a proof copy of the " Banks of 
the Devon," which present with my best wishes 
to Charlotte. The " Ochil-hills," you shall 
probably have next week for yourself. None of 
your fine speeches ! 



Edinburgh, Dec. 19, 1787. 
I BEGIN this letter in answer to yours of the 
I7th current, which is not yet cold since I read 
it. The atmosphere of my soul is vastly clearer 
than when I wrote you last. For the first time, 
yesterday I crossed the room on crutches. It 
would do your heart good too see my hardship, 
not on my poetic, but on my oaken stilts ; 
throwing my hest leg with an air ! and with 
KS much hilarity in my gait and countenance, 
as a May frog leaping across the newly harrowed 
ridge, enjoying the fragrance of the refreshed 
earth after the long-expected shower ! 



I can't say I am altogether at my ease when 
I see any where in my path, that meagre, squa- 
lid, famine-faced spectre, poverty ; attended as 
he always is, by iron- fisted oppression, and leer- 
ing contempt ; but I have sturdily withstood 
hi« buffetiugs many a hard-laboured day already, 
a'ld still my motto is — I dare ! My worst 
pnemy is Moimeme. I lie so miserably open to 
the inroads and incursions of a mischievous, 
ight-armed, weU- mounted banditti, under the 



banners of imagination, whim, caprice, an^ 
passion ; and the heavy -armed veteran regulars 
of wisdom, prud*,nce and fore-thought, move so 
very, very slow, that I am almost in a state of 
perpetual warfare, and alas ! frequent defeat. 
There are just two creatures tlat I would envy, 
a horse in his wild state traversing the forests 
of Asia, or an oyster on some of the desert 
shores of Europe. The one has not a wisL 
without enjoyment, the other has neither wiah 
nor fear. 



Edinburgh, March 14, 1788. 
I KNOW, my ever dear friend, that you will 
be pleased with the news when I tell you, I 
have at last taken a lease of a farm. Yester- 
night I completed a bargain with Mr. Miller, 
of Dalswinton, for the farm of Ellisland, on the 
banks of the Nith, between five and six miles 
above Dumfries. I begin at Whitsunday to 
build a house, drive lime, &c. and heaven be 
my help ! for it will take a strong efi'ort to 
bring my mind into the routine of business. I 
have discharged all the army of my former pur- 
suits, fancies and pleasures ; a motley host ! and 
have literally and strictly retained only the ideas 
of a few friends, which I have incorporated into 
a life-guard. I trust in Dr. Johnson's observa- 
tion, " Where much is attempted, something is 
done." Firmness both in sufferance and exer- 
tion, is a character I would wish to be thought 
to possess ; and have dways despised the whin- 
ing yelp of complaint, and the cowardly, feeble 
resolve. 



Poor Miss K. is ailing a good deal this win- 
ter, and begged me to remember her to you the 
first time I wrote you. Surely woman, amiable 
woman, is often made in vain I Too delicately 
formed for the rougher pursuits of ambition ; 
too noble for the dirt of avarice, and even too 
gentle for the rage of pleasure ; formed indeed 
for and highly susceptible of enjoyment and rap- 
ture ; but that enjoyment, alas ! almost wholly 
at the mercy of the caprice, malevolence, stupi- 
dity, or wickedness of an animal at all times 
comparatively unfeeling, and often brutal. 



MaucUine, Ith April, 1788. 
I AM indebted to you and Miss Nimmo for 
letting me know Miss Kenedy. Strange ! how 
apt we are to indulge prejudices in our judg- 
ments of one another ! Even I, who pique my- 
self on my skill in marking characters ; because 
I am too pioud of my character as a man, to be 
dazzled in my judgment /or glaring wealth ; and 
too proud of my situation as a poor man to be 
biassed against squalid poverty ; I was unac- 
quainted with Miss K.'s very uncommon worth. 



1 am f^olng on a good deal progressive in mon 
yrand bat, the sober science of life. I have 
lately made some sacrifices for which, were I 
viva voce with you to paint the situation and 
recount the circumstances, you would applaud 
nie. 



get any thing to do. I wanted v,n hut, which 
is a dangerous, an unhappy situation. I got 
this without any hanging on, or mortifying so- 
licitation ; it is immediate bread, and though 
poor in comparison of the last eighteen months 
of my existence, 'tis luxury in comparison of all 
my preceding life : besides, the commissioners 
are some of them my acquaintances, and all of 
them my firm friends. 



No date. 

Now for that wayward, unfortunate thing, 
myself. I have broke measures with . 
and last week I wrote him a frosty, keen letter, 
lie replied in terras of chastisement, and pro- 
mised me upon his honour that 1 should have 
the account on Monday ; but this is Tuesday, 
and yet I have not heard a word from him. 
God have mercy on me ! a poor d-nined, in- 
cautious, duped, unfortunate fool i The sport, 
the miserable victim, of rebellious pride ; hypo- 
chondriac imagination, agonizing sensibility, 
and bedlam passions ! 

'< / ivish that I tvere dead, hut Fm no like 
to die /" I had lately " a haii-breadth 'scajie in 
th' imminent deadly breach" of love too. Thank 
my stars 1 got off heart-whole, " waur fleyd 
than hurt." — Interruption. 

I have this moment got a hint .... 

I fear I am something 

like — undone — but I hope for the best. Come, 
stubborn pride and unshrinking resolution ! ac- 
com])any uie through this, to me, miserable 
world ! You must not desert me ! Your friend- 
ship I think I can count on, though I should 
date my letters from a marching regiment. 
Eirly in life, and all my life, I reckoned on a 
re'jruiting drum as my forlorn hope. Seriously 
thouffh, life at present presents me with but a 
melancholy path : but — my limb will soon be 
souud, and 1 shall struggle on. 



To-morrow, 
ELdiuburgh. 



JEdinhurgn, Sundat/. 
ray dear Madam, I leave 



1 have altered all my plans of future life. A 
farm that I could liv^ in, I could not find ; and 
indeed, after the necessary support my brother 
ajd the rest of the family required, I could not 
venture on farming in that style suitable to my 
feelings. You will condemn me for the next 
step I have taken. I have entered into the ex- 
cise. I stay in the west about three weeks, and 
then return to Edinburgh for six weeks instruc- 
tions ; afterwards, for I gtt employ instantly, I 
go oil il plait a Dieii, — et mon lioi. I have 
chosen this, my dear friend, ai'cer mature deli- 
beration. The question is not at what door of 
fortune's palace shall we enter in ; but what 
dooi-s does she open to us ? 1 was not likely to sition, — the whole affair is chimerical — ^yet h 



NO. LXI. 
TO MISS CHALMERS. 

MY DEAR MADAM, Edinburgh, Dec. I7S7. 

I JUST now have read yours. The poetic 
compliments I pay cannot be misunderstood. 
They are neither of them so particular as to 
point you out to the world at large ; and the 
circle of your acquaintances will allow all I 
have said. Besides I have complimented you 
chiefly, almost solely, on your mental charms. 
Shall I be plain with you ? I will ; so look to it. 
Personal attractions, Madam, you have much 
above par; wit, understanding, and worth, you 
possess in the first class. This is a cursed flat 
way of telling you these truths, but let me hear 
no more of your sheepish timidity. I know 
the world a little. I know what they will say 
of my poems ; by second sight I suppose ; for 
I am seldom out in my conjectures ; and you 
may believe me, my dear Madam, I would not 
run any risk of hurting you by an ill-judged 
compliment. I wish to show to the world, the 
odds between a poet's friends and those of sim- 
ple prosemen. More for your information both 
the pieces go in. One of them, " Where brav- 
in.g all the winter's harms," is already set — 
the tune is Neil Gow's Lamentation for Aber- 
carney ; the other is to be set to an old High- 
land air in Daniel Dow's " collection of ancient 
Scots music ; the name is Ha a Chaillich air 
mo Dheidh. My treacherous memory has for- 
got every circumi^tance about Les Incas, only 

I think you mentioned them as being in C *s 

possession. I shall ask him about it. I am 
afraid the song of " Somebody" will come too 
late — as I shall, for certain, leave town in a 
week for Ayrshire, and from that to Dumfries, 
but there my hopes are slender. I leave my 
direction in town, so any thing, wherever I am, 
will reach me. 

I saw your's to ■■■ it is not too severe, 

nor did he take it amiss. On the contrary, 
like a whipt spaniel, he talks of being with you 

in the Christmas days. JNIr. has giveo 

him the invitation, and he is determined to ac- 
cept of it. O selfishness ! he owns in his so- 
ber moments, that from his own volatility of 
inclination, the circumstances in which he is si- 
tuated and his knowledge of his father's dispo- 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



28) 



will gratify an idle penchant at the enormous, 
cruel expense of perhaps ruining the peace of 
the very woman for whom he professes the ge- 
nerous passion of love ! He is a gentleman in 
his mind and manners, tant pis ! — He is a 
volatile school-boy : the heir of a man's for- 
tune who well knows the value of two times 
two ! 

Perdition seize them and their fortunes, be- 
fore they should make the amiable, the lovely 

the derided object of their purse-proud 

contempt. 

I am doubly happy to hear of Mrs. 's 

recovery, because I really thought all was over 
with her. There are days of pleasure yet a- 
waiting her. 

•" As I cam in by Gknap 
I met with an aged woman ; 
She bade me chear up my heart, 
For the best o' my days was coming." 



No. LXII. 



TO MISS M- 



-N. 



Saturday Noon, No. 2, St. Jameses Sqr. 
New- Town, JEdinburgh. 

Here have I sat, my dear Madam, in the 
stony attitude of perplexed study for fifteen vex- 
atious minutes, my head askew, bending over 
the intended card ; my fixed eye insensible to 
the very light of day poured around ; my pen- 
dulous goose-feather, loaded with ink, hanging 
over the future letter ; all for the important 
purpose of writing a complimentary card to ac- 
company your trinket. 

Compliments is such a miserable Greenland 
expression ; lies at such a chilly polar distance 
from the torrid zone of my constitution, that I 
cannot, for the very soul of me, use it to ary 
person for whom I have the twentieth part of 
the esteem, every one must have for you who 
knows you. 

As I leave town in three or four days, I can 
give myself the pleasure of calling for you only 
tor a minute. Tuesday evening, sometime about 
seven, or after, I shall wait on you, for your 
farewell commands. 

The hinge of your box, I put into the hands 
of the proper Connoisseur, The broken glass, 
Hkewise, went under review ; but deliberative 
wisdom thought it would too much endanger 
the whole fabric. 

T am, dear Madam, 

With all sincerity of enthusiasm. 
Your very humble Servant. 



No. LXIII. 

TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE, Edinburgh 

Edinburgh, Svnday Morning, 
Nov. 28, 1787. 

T BEG, my dear Sir, you would not make 
any appointment to take us to ]Mr. Ainslie's to- 
night. On looking over my engagements, con- 
stitutiop, present state of my health, some little 
vexatious soul concerns, &c. I find I can't sup 
abroad to-night. 

I shall be in to-day till one o'clock if you have 
a leisure hour. 

You will think it romantic when I tell you, 
that I find the idea of your friendship almost 
necessary to my existence. — You assume a pro- 
per length of face in my bitter hours of blue- 
devilism, and you laugh fully up to my highest 
wishes at my good things. — I don't know, upon 
the whole, if you are one of the first fellows in 
God's world, but you are so to me. I tell you 
this just now in the conviction that some in- 
equalities in my temper and manner may per- 
haps sometimes make you suspect that I am no« 
so warmly as I ought to be 

Your fiieuil. 



No. LXIV. 

TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq. 

While here I sit, sad and solitary, by the 
side of a fire in a little country inn, and drying 
my wet clothes, in pops a poor fellow of a Mjdger 
and tells me he is going to Ayr. By heavens I 
say I to myself, with a tide of good spirits which 
the magic of that sound, Auld Toon o' Ayr, 
conjured up, I will send my last song to Mr. 
Ballantine.^ — Here it is — 

( The first sketch of " Ye Banks and Braes a 
Bonnie Doon.") 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES, 

No. LXV. 
FROM THE POET TO DR. MOORE, 

GIVING A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 

SIR, Mauchline, 2d Aug. 1787. 

For some months past I have been ramb- 
ling over the country ; but I am now confined 
with some lingering complaints, originating, m 
I take it, in the stomach. To divert my spirits 
a little in this miserable fog of ennui, I have ta- 
ken a whim to give you a history of myself. 
My name has made some little noise in this coun- 



SJ82 



BURNS' WORKS. 



try ; you have done me the honour to interest 
yourself very warmly in my behalf; and I think 
a faithful account of what clvaracter of a man I 
am, and how I came by that character, may per- 
haps amuse you in an idle moment. I will give 
you an honest nairative; though I know it will 
be often at my own expense ; — for I assure you. 
Sir, I have, like Solomon, whose character, ex- 
cept in the trifling affair of wisdom, I some- 
times think I resemble, — I have, I say, like him, 
turned my eyes to behold madness and folly, and, 
like him too, frequently shaken hands with their 
intoxicating friendship. . , . After you 
have perused these pages, should you think them 
trifling and impertinent, I only beg leave to tell 
you, that the poor author wrote them under some 
twitching qualms of conscience, arising from a 
suspicion that he was doing what he ought not 
to do ; a predicament he has more than once 
been in before. 

I have not the most distant pretensions to 
assume that character which the pye-coated 
guardians of escutcheons call a Gentleman. When 
at Edinburgh last winter, I got acquainted 
the Herald's Office ; and, looking through that 
granary of honours, I there found almost every 
name in the kingdom ; but for me, 

" My ancient but ignoble blood 

Has crept through scoundrels ever since the 
flood." 

Gules, purpura, argent, &c. quite disowned me 
My father was of the north of Scotland, the 
son of a farmer, and was thrown by early mis- 
fortunes on the world at large ; where, after many 
years wanderings and sojouruings, he picked up 
a pretty large quantity of observation and expe 
rience, to which I am indebted for most of my 
little pretensions to wisdom. — I have met with 
few who understood men, their manners, and 
their ways, equal to him ; but stubborn, ungain- 
ly integrity, and headlong, ungovernable irasci- 
bility, are disqualifying circumstances ; conse- 
quently I was born a very poor man's son. For 
the first six or seven years of my life, my fa- 
ther was a gardener to a worthy gentleman of 
small estate in the neighbourhood of Ayr. Had 
he continued in that station, I must have march- 
ed oflF to be one of the little underlings about a 
farm-house ; but it was his dearest wish and 
prayer to have it in his power to keep his chil- 
dren under his own eye till they could discern 
between good and evil ; so, with the assistance 
of his generous master, my father ventured on 
a small farm on his estate. At those years 
I was by no means a favourite with any body. 
I was a good deal noted for a retentive memory, 
a stubborn sturdy something in my disposition, 
and an enthusiastic idiot piety. I say idiot piety, 
because I was then but a child. Though it cost 
the schoolmaster some thrashings, 1 made an ex- 
cellent EngHsh scholar ; and by the time I wafe 
ten or eleven years of age, I was a critic in >u\i- 
stautives, verbs, and participles. In my intant 



and boyish days, too, I owed much to an old 
woman who resided in the family, remarkable 
for her ignorance, credulity, and superstition. 
She had, I suppose, the largest collection in the 
country of tales and songs concerning devils, 
ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, 
spuiikies, kelj)ies, elf-candles, dead -lights, wraiths, 
apparitions, cantrips, giants, enchanted towers, 
dragons, and other trumpery. This cultivated 
the latent seeds of p"betry j but had so strong an 
effect on my imagination, that to this hour, in 
my nocturnal rambles, I sometimes keep a sharp 
look-out in suspicious places ; and though no- 
body can be more sceptical than I am in such 
matters, yet it often takes an effort of philosophy 
to shake of these idle terrors. The earliest com- 
position that I recollect taking pleasure in, was 
The Vision of Mirza, and a hymn of Addison's, 
beginning, How are thy Servants blest, O 
Lord ! I particularly remember one half-stanza 
which was music to my boyish ears — 

" For though on dreadful whirls we hung 
High on the broken wave — " 

I niet with these pieces in Mason s English 
Collection, one of my school-books. The two 
first books I ever read in private, and which 
gave me moie pleasure than any two books I 
ever read since, were. The Life of Hannibal, 
and The History of Sir William Wallace. 
Hannibal gave my young ideas such a turn, that 
I used to strut in raptures up and down after the 
recruiting drum and bag-pipe, and wish myself 
tall enough to be a soldier ; while the story ot 
Wallace poured a Scottish prejudice into my 
veins, which will boil along there till the flood- 
gates of life shut in eternal rest. 

Polemical divinity about this time was put- 
ting the country half-mad ; and I, ambitious ot 
shining in conversation parties on Sundays, be- 
tween sermons, at funerals, &c. used, a few years 
afterwards, to puzzle Calvinism with so much 
heat and indiscretion, that I raised a hue and cry 
of heresy against me, which has not ceased to 
this hour. 

My vicinity to Ayr was of some advantage 
to me. My social disposition, when not check- 
ed by some modifications of spirited pride, was, 
like our chatechism-definition of infinitude, 
without bounds or limits. I formed several con- 
nections with other younkers who possessed su- 
perior advantages, the youngling actors, who 
were busy in the rehearsal of parts in which they 
were shortly to appear on the stage of life, 
where, alas ! I was destined to drudge behind 
the scenes. It is not commonly at this green 
age that our young gentry have a just sense of 
the immense distance between them and their 
ragged play-fellows. It takes a few dashes into 
the world, to give the young great man that pro- 
per, decent, unnoticing disregard for the poor, 
nsignificant, stupid devils, the mechanics and 
peasaritry around him, who were perhaps l-oro 
in the sajne village. My young superiors ntsvet 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



283 



msulted the chuterly appearance of my plough- 
boy carcass, the two extremes of which were of- 
ten exposed to all the inclemencies of all the sea- 
sons. They would give me stray volumes of 
books : among them, even then, I could pick up 
some observations ; and one, whose heart I am 
sure not even the Mutiny JBegum scenes have 
tainted, helped me to a little French. Parting 
with these my young friends and benefactors, as 
they occasionally went off for the East or West 
Indies, was often to me a sore affliction ; but I 
was soon called to more serious evils. My fa- 
ther's generous master died ; the farm proved a 
ruinous bargain ; and, to clench the misfortune, 
we fell into the hands of a factor, who sat for 
the picture I have drawn of one in my Tale of 
Twa Dogs. My father was advanced in life 
when he married ; I was the eldest of seven 
children ; and he, worn out by early hardships, 
was unfit for labour. My father's spirit was 
soon irritated, but not easily broken. There was 
a freedom in his lease in two years more ; and to 
weather these two years, we retrenched our ex- 
penses. We lived very poorly : I was a dexter- 
ous ploughman, for my age ; and the next eldest 
to me was a brother (Gilbert) who could drive 
the plough very well, and help me to thrash the 
corn. A novel writer might perhaps have view- 
ed these scenes with some satisfaction ; but so 
did not I ; my indignation yet boils at the recol- 
lection of the s — 1 factor's insolent threa- 
tening letters, which used to set us all in tears. 
This kind of life — the cheerless gloom of a 
hermit, with the unceasing moil of a galley- 
slave, brought me to my sixteenth year ; a lit- 
tle before which period I first committed the sin 
of Rhyme. You know our country custom of 
coupling a man and woman together as partners 
in the labours of harvest. In my fifteenth au- 
tumn my partner was a bewitching creature a 
year younger than myself. My scarcity of 
English denies me the power of doing her jus- 
tice in that language ; but you know the Scot- 
tish idiom — she was a bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass. 
In short, she altogether, unwittingly to herself, 
initiated me in that delicious passion, which, in 
spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse prudence, 
and book-worm philosophy, I hold to be the 
i^rst of human joys, our dearest blessing here 
below ! How she caught the contagion, I can- 
not tell : you medical people talk much of in- 
fection from breathing the same air, the touch, 
&c. ; but I never expressly said I loved her. 
Indeed, I did not know myself why I liked so 
much to loiter behind with her, when return- 
ing in the evening from our labours ; why the 
tones of her voice made my heart-strings thrill 
like an ^Eolian harp ; and particularly why my 
pulse beat such a furious ratan when 1 looked 
and fingered over her little hand to pick out the 
cruel nettle-stings and thistles. Among her 
other love-inspiring qualities, she sung sweetly ; 
and it was her favourite reel, to which I at- 
tempted giving an embodied vehicle in rhyme. 
I was aet so presumptuous as to imagine that I 



could make verses like printed ones, composed 
by men who had Greek and Latin ; but mj 
girl sung a song, which was said to be com- 
posed by a small country laird's son, on one of his 
father's maids, with whom he was in love ; and I 
saw no reason why 1 might not rhyme as well as 
he ; for, excepting that he could smear sheep, and 
cast peats, his father living in the moor-lands, 
he had no more scholar-craft than myself. 

Thus with me began love and poetry ; 
which at times have been my only, and till 
within the last twelve months, have been my 
highest enjoyment. My father struggled on 
till he reached the freedom in his lease, when 
he entered on a larger farm, about ten miles 
farther in the country. The nature of the 
bargain he made was such as to throw a little 
ready money into his hands at the commence- 
ment of his lease ; otherwise the affair would 
have been impracticable. For four years we 
lived comfortably here ; but a difference com- 
mencing between him and his landlord, as to 
terms, after three years to^ng and whirling 
in the vortex of litigation, my father was just 
saved from the horrors of a jail by a consump- 
tion, which, after two years' promises, kindly 
stepped in, and carried him away, to where the 
wicked cease from troubling, and where the 
weary are at rest. 

It is during the time that we lived on this 
farm that my little story is most eventful. I 
was, at the beginning of this period, perhaps 
the most ungainly, awkward boy in the parish 
— no solitaire was less acquainted with the 
ways of the world. What I knew of ancient 
story was gathered from Salmoii's and Guth- 
rie's geographical grammars ; and the ideas I 
had formed of modern manners, of literature, 
and criticism, I got from the Spectator. These, 
with Pope's Works, some plays of S/takspeare, 
Tull and Dickson on Agriculture, the Pan- 
theon, Locke''s Essay on the Human Un- 
derstanding, Stackhouse's History of the 
Bible, Justice's British Gardener's Directory, 
SayWs Lectures, Allan Ramsay s Witrks, 
Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin, 
A Select Collection of English Songs, and 
Hervey's Meditations, had formed the whole 
of my reading. The collection of songs was my 
vade mecum. I pored over them, driving my 
cart, or walking to labour, song by song, verse 
by verse ; carefully noting the true tender, or 
sublime, from affectation and fustian. I am 
convinced I owe to this practice much of my cri- 
tic craft, such as it is. 

In my seventeenth year, to give my manners 
a brush, I went to a country dancing-schoul — . 
My father had an unaccountable antipathy 
against these meetings ; and my going was, 
what to this moment I repent, in opposition to 
his wishes. My father, as I said before, was 
subject to strong passions ; from that instance 
of disobedience in me, he took a sort of dislike 
to me, which I believe was one cause of the dis- 
sipation which marked my s-i^^eeding years 



284 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Bay dissipation, comj>aiati/ely with the strict- 
ness, and sobriety, and reguUrity of Presbyte- 
rian country life ; for though the Will-o'-Wisp 
inetoors of thoughtless whim were almost the 
sole lights of my pafh, yet early ingrained piety 
and virtue kept me for several years afterwards 
within the line of innocence. The great mis- 
f irtune of my life was to want an aim. I had 
felt early some stirrings of ambition, but thev 
were the blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops 
round tnt walls of his cave. I s»w my father's 
situation eutraled on me perpetual labour. The 
only two openings by which I could enter the 
temple of Fortune, was the gate of niggardly 
economy, or the path of I .tie chicaning bargain- 
making. The first is so contracted an aperture, 
I never could squeeze myself into it ; — the last 
I always hated — there was contamination in the 
very entrance ! Thus abandoned of aim or view 
in life, with a strong a|'petite for sociability, as 
well from native hilarity, as from a pride of ob- 
servation and remark ; a constitutional melan- 
choly or hypochondriasm that made me fly so- 
litude ; add to these incentives to social life, my 
reputation for bookish knowledge, a certain 
wild logical talent, and a strength of thought, 
something like the rudiments of good sense ; 
and it will not seem surprising that I vvas ge- 
nerally a welcome guest where I visited, or any 
great wonder that, always where two or three 
met together, there was I among them. But, 
far beyond all other impulses of my heart, was 
un penchant a V adorable moitSe du genre hu- 
main. My heart was completely tinder, and 
was eternally lighted up by some goddess or 
other ; and as in every other warfare in this 
woild my fortune was various, sometimes I was 
received with favour, and sometimes I was mor- 
tified with a repulse. At the plough, scythe, 
or reap-hook, I feared no competitor, and thus 
I act absolute want at defiance ; and as I never 
cared farther for my labours than while I was 
in actual exercise, I spent the evenings in the 
way after my own heart. A country lad sel- 
dom carries on a love adventure without an as- 
sisting confidant I possessed a curiosity, zeal, 
and intrepid dexterity, that I'ecommended me as 
a proper second on these occasions ; and I dare 
say, I felt as much pleasure in being in the se- 
cret of half the loves of the parish of Tarbolton, 
as ever did statesmen in knowing the intrigues 
of half the courts of Europe. — The very goose- 
feather in my hand seems to know instinctively 
the well-worn path of my imagination, the fa- 
vourite theme of my song ; and is with difficul- 
ty restrained from giving you a couple of para- 
gtaphs on the love adventures of my compeers, 
the humble inr.:ates of the farm-house and cot- 
tage ; but the grave sons of science, ambition, 
or avarice, baptize these things by the name of 
follies. To the sons and daughters of labour 
ind poverty, they are matters of the nost seri- 
ous nature ; to them, the ardent hope, the sto- 
en interview, the tender farewell, are the great- 
est and most delicious parts of their enjoyments. 



Anotner cirdumstance in ray Vife wny^ih 
made some alteration in my mind and manners, 
was, that I spent my nineteenth summer on a 
smuggling coast, a good distance from home, at 
a noted school, to learn mensuration, surveying, 
dialling, &c. in which I made a pretty good 
progress. But I made a greater progress in the 
knowledge of mankind. The contraband trade 
was at that time very successful, and it some- 
times happened to me to fall in with those who 
carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot and 
roaring dissipation were till this time new to 
me ; but I was no enemy to social life. Here, 
though I learnt to fill my glass, and to mix 
without fear in a drunken squabble, yet I went 
on with a high hand with my geometry, till the 
sun entered Virgo, a month which is always a 
carnival in my bosom, when a charming ^/e^^e, 
who lived next door to the school, overset my 
trigonometry, and set me off at a tangent from 
the sphere of my studies. I, however, struggled 
on with my sines, and co-sines, for a few days 
more ; but stepping into the garden one charm- 
ing noon to take the sun's altitude, there I met 
my angel, 

" Like Proserpine, gathering flowers, 
Herself a fairer flower." 

It was in vain to think of doing any more 
good at school. The remaining week I staid, 
I did nothing but craze the faculties of my soul 
about her, or steal out to meet her ; and the 
two last nights of my stay in the country, had 
sleep been a mortal sin, the image of this mo- 
dest and innocent girl had kept me guiltless. 

I returned home very considerably improv- 
ed. INIy reading was enlarged with the very 
important addition of Thomson's and Shen- 
stone's Works ; I had seen human nature in a 
new phasis ; and I engaged several of my 
school-fellows to keep up a literary correspon- 
dence with me. This improved me in compo- 
sition. I had met with a collection of letters 
by the wits of Queen Anne's reign, and I pored 
over them most devoutly : I kept copies of any 
of my own letters that pleased me ; and a com- 
parison between them and the composition oi 
most of ray correspondents flattered my vanity. 
I carried this whim so far, that though 1 had 
not three farthings worth of business in the 
world, yet almost every post brought me as 
many letters as if I had been a broad plodding 
son of day-book and ledger. 

My life flowed on much in the same course 
till my twenty-third year. Vive I'amour, et 
Vive la bagatelle, were my sole principles of ac- 
tion. The addition of two mere authors to my 
library gave me great pleasure ; Sterne and 
M'^Kenzie — Tristram Shandy and The Man 
of Feeling — weve my bosom favourites. Poesy 
was still a darling walk for n v mind ; but ij 
was only indulged in according to the humour 
of the hour. I had usually half a dozen or mor# 
pieces on hand ; I took up one or other, as i» 



CORRESPONDENCE 



26S 



suited the momentary tone of the mind, and 
dismissed the work as it bordered on fatigue. 
My passions, when once lighted up, raged like 
so many devils, till they got vent in rhyme ; and 
then the conning over my verses, like a spell, 
soothed all into quiet ! None of the rhymes of 
those days are in print, except Winter, a Dirge, 
the eldest of my printed pieces ; The Death of 
Poor Ma')^'ie, John liarleycorn, and Songs, 
first, seconi., and third. Song second was the 
ebullition of that passion which ended the fore- 
mentioned school business. 

My twenty-third year was to me an import- 
ant era. Partly through whim, and partly 
that I wished to set about doing something in 
life, I joined a flax-dresser in a neighbouring 
town (Irvine) to learn his trade. This was 
an unlucky affair. My ' ; and, to 

finish the whole, as we were giving a welcome 
carous.d to the new year, the shop took fire, 
and 1)11 1'lt to ashes ; and I was left, like a true 
poet II r worth a sixpence. 

1 w i^ uitliged to give up this scheme : the 
clou(i> u; misfortune were gathering thick round 
my father's liead ; and, what was worst of all, 
he was visibly far gone in a consumption ; and, 
to crown my distresses, a belle fille, whom I 
adored, and who had pledged her soul to meet 
me in the field of matrimony, jilted me, with 
peculiar circumstances of mortification. The 
finishing evil that brought up the rear of this 
infernal file, was, my constitutional melancholy 
being increased to such a degree, that for three 
months I was in a state of mind scarcely to be 
envied by the hopeless wretches who have got 
tlieir mittimus — Depart from me, ye cursed ! 

From this adventure, I learned something 
of a town life ; but the principal thing which 
gave my mind a turn, was a friendship I form- 
ed with a young fellow, a very noble character, 
but a hajdess son of misfortune. He was the 
son of a simpie mechanic ; but a great man in 
the neighbourhood taking him under his pa- 
tronage, gave him a genteel education, with a 
view of bettering his situation in life. The 
patron dying just as he was ready to launch out 
into the world, the poor fellow in desi)air went 
to sea ; where, after a variety of good and ill 
fortune, a little before I was acquainted with 
him, he had been set ashore by an American 
privateer, on the wild coast of Connaught, 
stripped of every thing. I cannot quit this poor 
fellow's story, without adding, that he is at this 
time miister of a large West Indlaman belonging 
tf the Thames. 

His mind was fraught with independence, 
magnanimity, an( every manly virtue. I loved 
and admired him to a degree of enthusiasm, 
and of course strove to imitate him. In some 
jneasure, I succeeded ; I had pride before, but 
he taught it to flow in proper channels. His 
knowledge of the world was vastly superior to 
mine, and I was all attention to learn. He was 
tke only man I ever saw who was a greater 
fool than myself, wJaere woman was the presid- 



ing star ; but he spoke r illicit love with the 
levity of a sailor, which hitherto I had regcirded 
with horror. Here his friendship did me a mis- 
chief ,• and the consequence was, that soon after 
I resumed the plough, I wrote the Poet's Wel- 
come.* My reading only increased, while in 
this town, by two stray volumes of Pamela, and 
one of Ferdinand Count Fathom, which gave 
me some idea of novels. Rhyme, except some 
religious pieces that are in print, I had given 
up ; but meeting with Fergusson's Scottiah 
Poems, I strung anew my wildly-sounding lyre 
with emulating vigour. When ray father died, 
his all went among the hell-hounds that prowl 
in the kennel of justice ; but we made a shif* 
to collect a little money in the family amongst 
us, with which, to keep >es together, my brother 
and I took a neighbouring farm. My brother 
wanted my hair-brained imagination, as well as 
my social and amorous madness ; but, in good 
sense, and every sober qualification, he was far 
my superior. 

I entered on this farm with a full resolution, 
0)me, go to, I will be wise ! I read farming 
books ; I calculated crops ; I attended markets ; 
and, in short, in spite of the devil, and the 
world, and the flesh, I believe I should have 
been a wise man ; but the first year, from un- 
fortunately buying bad seed, the second, from a 
late harvest, we lost half our crops. This over- 
set all my wisdom, and I returned, lik the dog 
to his vomit, and the sow that was washed, to 
her wallowing in the mire. 

I now began to be known in the neigh- 
bourhood as a maker of rhymes. The first of 
ray poetic off"spring that saw the light, was a 
burlesque lamentation on a quarrel between two 
reverend Calvinists, both of them dramatis per. 
sonce in ray Holy Fair. I had a notion my- 
self, that the piece had some merit ; but to pre- 
vent the worst, I gave a copy of it to a friend 
who was very fond of such things, and told him 
that I could not guess who was the author of 
it, but that I thought it pretty clever. With 
a certain description of the clergy, as well as 
laity, it met with a roar of applause. Holy 
Willie's Prayer next made its appearance, and 
alarmed the kirk-session so much, that they 
held several meetings to look over their spiritual 
artillery, if haply any of it might be pointed 
against profane rhymers. Unluckily for me, 
my wanderings led me on another side, within 
point blank shot of their heaviest metal. This 
is the unfortunate story that gave rise to my 
printed poem, The Lament. This was a most 
melancholy affair, which I cannot yet bear to 
reflect on, and had very nearly given me i)ne or 
two of the principal qualifications for a place 
among those who have lost the chart, and mis- 
taken the reckoning of Rationality. I gave up 
my part of the farm to my brother ; in truth it 
was only nominally mine ; and made what little 



» Rob the Rhymer's Welcome to his Dastart 
Ckild. 



BURNS' WORKS. 



preparation was in my power for Jamaica. But, 
before leaving my native country for ever, I re- 
."olved to publish my poems. I weighed my 
productions as impartially as was in my power : 
I thought they had merit ; and it was a delil 
cious idea that I should be called a clever fel- 
low, even though it should never reach my 
•ars— a poor negro-driver,^or perhaps a vic- 
.ira to that inhospitable clime, and gone to the 
world of spirits ! I can truly say, that pauvre 
tnconnu as I then was, I had pretty nearly as 
high an idea of myself and of my works as I 
have at this moment, when the public has de- 
cided in their favour. It ever was my opini- 
on, that the mistakes and blunders, both in a 
rational and religious point of view, of which 
we see thousands daily guilty, are owing to 
their Ignorance of themselves.^To know my- 
self, had been all along ray constant study. I 
weighed myself alone ; I balanced myself with 
others ; I watched every means of information, 
10 see how much ground I occupied as a man 
and as a poet : I studied assiduously nature's 
design in my formation—where the lights and 
shades in my character were intended. I was 
pretty confident my poems would meet with 
some applause ; but, at the worst, the roar of 
tne Atlantic would deafen the voice of censure 
and the novelty of West Indian scenes make me 
forget neglect. I threw off six hundred copies, 
of which I had got subscriptions for about three 
hundred and fifty.—My vanity was highly gra- 
tified by the reception I met with from the 
public; and besides I pocketed, all expenses 
deducted, nearly twenty pounds. This sum 
came very seasonably, as I was thinking of in- 
denting myself, for want of money to procure 
my passage. As soon as I was master of nine 
guineas, the price of wafting me to the torrid 
zone, I took a steerage passage in the first ship 
that was to sail from the Clyde ; for 



age of one of the noblest of me»., the Earl oi 
Glencairn. Ouhlie moi, Grand Dleu, si ia^ 
maisje rouhlie ! ' • 7" 

I need relate no farther. At Edinburcrh I 
was ma new world; I „,ingled among many 
classes of men, but all of them new to me, and 
1 was all attention to catch the characters and 
the manners living as they rise. Whether I 
have profited, time will show. 



My most respectful compliments to Miss W 
Her very elegant and friendly letter I cannot ani 
s^ver at present, as my presence is requisite in 
iiidinburgh, and I set out to-morrow.* 



No. LXVI. 
FROM GILBERT BURNS. 

A RUNNING COMMENTARY ON THE FORE- 
GOING. 



" Hungry ruin had me in the wind." 

I had been for some days skulking from 
covert to covert, under all the terrors of a jail • 
as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the 
merciless pack of the law at my heels. I had 
taken the last farewell of my few friends ; mv 
chest was on the road to Greenock ; I had com- 
posed the last song I should ever measure in 
Caledonia, The gloomy night is gathering fast, 
when a letter from Dr. Blacklock, to a friend 
of mine, overthrew all my schemes, by openinc. 
new prospects to my poetic ambition. The 
Doctor belonged to a set of critics, for whose 
applause I had not dared to hope. His opi 
mon that I would meet with encouracoment in 
Jidinbui-gh for a second edition, fired me so 
much, that away 1 posted for that city, with- 
out a single acquaintance, or a smgie letter of 
introduction. The baneful star, that had so 
.ong shed its blasting influence in my zenith. 
fur once made a revolution to the nadir; and 
1 kind Providence placed me undei the patron-. 



The farm was upwards of seventy acres + 
(between eighty and ninety English statute 
measure), the rent of which was to be forty 
pounds annually for the first six years, and af- 
terwards forty-five pounds. Mv'father endea- 
voured to sell his leasehold jiroperty, for the 
purpose of stocking this farm, but at that time 
was unable, and Mr. Ferguson lent him a hun- 
dred pounds for that purpose. He removed to 
his new situation at Whitsuntide, 1766. It wa.s, 
I think, not above two years after this, that 
Murdoch, our tutor and friend, left this part of 
the country ; and there being no school near us, 
and our little services being useful on the farm, 
my father undertook to teach us arithmetic in 
the winter evenings, by candle-light; and in this 
way my two eldest sisters got all the education 
they received. I remember a circumstance that 
happened at this time, which, though triflincr 
m Itself, IS fresh in my memory, and may serve 
to illustrate the early character of my biother. 
Murdoch came to spend a night with us, and to 
take his leave when he was about to go inte 
Carrick. He brought us, as a present and me. 
morial of him, a small compendium of En.rlish 
Grammar, and the tragedy of Titus AndronU 
cus; and by way of passing the evening, he be. 
gan to read the play aloud. We were all atten. 
tion for some time, till presently the whole par- 
ty was dissolved in tears. A female in the play 
( I have but a confused remembrance of it) had 



thr,r'7fe '^^ .T^'''^"^ ^.°P'^« °^ th's letter, in the au- 
thor s handwriting; and one of these, evidently cor- 
rected is m the book in which he had copie " Jveri 
of his letters. This has been used for the press w th 

t Letter of Gilbert Bums to Mrs. Dunlon. The 
name of thu farm is Mount Oliphant, in Ayr Jkril 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



281 



her hands chopt off, and her tongue cut out, 
and then was insultingly desired to call for wa- 
ter to wash her hands. At this, in an agony of 
distress, we with one voice desired he would 
read no more. My father observed, that if we 
would not hear it out, it would be needless to 
leave the play with us. Robert replied, that if 
it was left he would burn it. My father was 
going to cliide him for this ungrateful return to 
his tutor's kindness; but Murdoch interfered, de- 
claring that he liked to see so much sensibility ; 
and he left The School for Love, a comedy 
(translated, I think, from tlie French), in its 
place. 

Nothing could be more retired than our ge- 
neral manner of living at Mount Oliphant ; 
we rarely saw any body but the members of 
our own family. There were no boys of our 
own age, or near it, in the neighbourhood. 
Indeed the greatest part of the land in the 
vicinity was at that time possessed by shop- 
keepers, and people of that stamp, who had 
retiwd from business, or who kept their farm 
in the country, at the same time that they ful- 
lowed business in town. My father was for 
some tinne almost the only companion we had. 
He conversed familiarly on all subjects with us, 
a-- if we had been men ; and was at great pains, 
wVrile we accompanied him in the labours of the 
farm, to lead the conversation to such subjects 
as might tend to increase our knowledge, or 
confirm us in virtuous habits. He borrowed 
Salmon s Geographical Grammar for ns, and 
endeavoured to make us acquainted with the 
situation and history of the different countries 
in the world ; while, from a book-society in 
Ayr, he procured for us the reading of JOer- 
ham's Physico and Astro - Theology, and 
Ray's Wisdom of God in the Creation, to 
give us some idea of astronomy and natural his- 
tory. Robert read all these books with an avi- 
dity and industry scarcely to be equalled. My 
father had been a subscriber to Stackhouse's 
History of the Bible, then lately published by 
James Meuros in Kilmarnock : I'roni this 
Robert collected a competent knowledge of an- 
cient history ; for no book was so voluminous 
as to slacken his industry, or so antiquitated as 
to damp his researches. A brother of my mo- 
ther, who had lived with us some time, and 
had learnt some arithmetic by our winter even- 
ing's candle, went into a bookseller's shop in 
Ayr, to purchase The Ready Reckoner, or 
Tradesmaris sure Guide, and a book to teach 
him to write letters. Luckily, in place of The 
Complete Letter- Writer, he got, by mistake, 
a small collection of letters by the most emi- 
nent writers, with a few sensible directions for 
attaining an easy epistolary style. This book 
was to Robert of the greatest consequence. It 
inspired him with a strong desire to excel in 
Jetter-writing, while it furnished him with mo- 
dels by some of the first writers in our lan- 
gu ige. 

i\Iy brother was about thirteen or fourteen. 



when my father, regretting that we wi\)te se 
ill, sent us week about, during a summer quar- 
ter, to the parish school of Dalrymple, which, 
though between two and three miles distant, 
was the nearest to us, that we might have an 
opportunity of remedying this defect. About 
this time a bookish acquaintance of my father's 
procured us a reading of two volumes of Rich- 
ardson's Pamela, which wsfs the first novel we 
read, and the only part of Richardson's works 
my brother was acquainted with till tovvards 
the period of his commencing author. Till that 
time too he remained unacquainted with Field- 
ing, with Smollet, (two volumes of Ferdinand 
Count Fathom, and two volumes of Peregrine 
Pickle excepted), with Hume, with Robertson, 
and almost all our authors of eminence of the 
later times. I recollect indeed my father bor- 
rowed a volume of English history from Mr. 
Hamilton of Bourtree-hill's gardener. It treat- 
ed of the reign of James the First, and his un- 
fortunate son Charles, but I do not know who 
was the author ; all that I remember of it is 
something of Charles's conversation with his 
children. About this time Murdoch, our for- 
mer teacher, after having been in different 
places in the country, and having taught a 
school some time in Dumfries, came to be the 
established teacher of the English language in 
Ayr, a circumstance of considerable consequence 
to us. The remembrance of my father's former 
I friendship, and his attachment to my brother, 
mude him do every thing in his power for our 
improvement. He sent us Pope's works, and 
some other poetry, the first that we had an op- 
portunity of reading, excepting what is con- 
tained in T/ie English Collection, and in the 
volume of The Edinburgh Magazine iov 1772 ; 
excepting al>o those excellent new songs that 
are hawked about the country in baskets, or 
exjiosed on stalls in the streets. 

The summer after we had been at Dalryri) 
l)Ie school, my father sent Robei't to Ayr, to 
revise his English grammar, with his former 
teacher. He had been there only one week, 
when he was obliged to return, to assist at the 
harvest. When the harvest was over, he went 
back to school, where he remained two weeks ; 
and this completes the account of his school 
education, excepting one summer quarter, some 
time afterwards, that he attended the parish 
school of Kirk-Oswald (where he lived with a 
brother of my mother's) to learn surveying. 

During the two last weeks that he was with 
]Murdoch, he himself was engaged in learning 
French, and he communicated the instructions 
he received to my brother, who, when he return- 
ed, brought home with him a French dictionary 
and grammar, and the Adventures of Ttlemi- 
chus in the original. In a little while, by the 
assistance of these books, he had acquired such a 
knowledge of the language, as to read and un- 
derstand ,my French author in prose. This 
was consioered as a sort of prodigy, and, through 
the medium of Murdoch, procuied him the aC' 



?88 



BURNS* WORKS. 



■juaintance of several lads in Ayr, wKo were at 
that time gabbling French, and the notice of 
some families, particularly that of Dr. Malcolm, 
where a knowledge of French was a recommen- 
dation. 

Observing the facility with which he had 
acquired the French language, Mr. Robinson, 
the established writing-master in Ayr, and Mr. 
Murdoch's particular friend, having himself ac- 
quired a considerable knowledge of the Latin 
language by his own industry, without ever ha- 
ving learned it at school, advised Robert to make 
I I the same attempt, promising him every assist- 
j I ance in his power. Agreeably to this advice, he 
i I purchased T/ie liuJiments of the Latin Tongue, 
I I but finding this study dry and uninteresting, it 
! i was quickly laid aside. He frequently returned 
j ] to his Rudiments on any little chagrin or dis- 
I 1 appointment, particularly in his love affairs ; 
I I but the Latin seldom predominated more than a 
j j day or two at a time, or a week at most. Ob- 
1 I serving himself the ridicule that would attach to 
! this sort of conduct if it were known, he made 
I two or three humorous stanzas on the subject, 
I I which I cannot now recollect, but they all ended, 

I ! "So I'll to my Latin again.' 

I Thus you see Mr. Murdoch was a principal 

I means of my brother's improvement. Worthy 
I niflu ! though foreign to my present purpose, I 
cannot take leave of him without tracing his 
future history. He continued for some years a 
respected and useful teacher at Ayr, till one 
evening that he had been overtaken in liquor, 
he happened to speak somewhat disvespectfully 
of Dr. Dalrymple, the parish minister, who had 
not paid him that attention to which he thought 
himself entitled. In Ayr he might as well have 
spoken blasphemy. He found it proper to give 
up his appointment. He went to London, where 
he still lives, a private teacher of French. He 
has been a considerable time married, and keeps 
a shop of stationery wares. 

The father of Dr. Paterson, now physician at 
Ayr, was, I believe, a native of Aberdeenshire, 
and was one of the established teachers in Ayr 
when my father settled in the neighbourhood. 
He early recognised my father as a fellow na- 
tive of the north of Scotland, and a certain de- 
gree of intimacy subsisted between them during 
Mr. Paterson's life. After his death, his widow, 
; ! who is a very genteel woman, and of great 
I ' worth, delighted in doing what she thought her 
husband would have wished to have done, and 
assiduously kept up her attentions to all his ac- 
quaintance. She kept alive the intimacy with 
rur family, by frequently inviting my father and 
u>other to h»n- house on Sundays, whei? she met 
them at churcn. 

When she came to know my brother's passion 
for books, she kindly offered us the use of her 
husband's library, and from her we got the 
Spectator, Popc^s Translation of Homtr, and 
•everal other books that were of use to us. 



Mount Oliphant, the farm my father posstssed 
in the parish of Ayr, is almost the very poorest 
soil I know of in a state of cultivation. A 
stronger proof of this I cannot give, than that, 
notwithstanding the extraordinary rise in the 
value of lands in Scotland, it was, after a con- 
siderable sum laid out in improving it by the 
proprietor, let, a few years ago, five pounds per 
annum lower than the rent paid for it by my 
father thirty years ago. My father, in conse- 
quence of this, soon came into difficulties, which 
wei-e increased by the loss of several of his cattle 
by accidents and disease. — To the buffetings of 
misfortune we could only oppose hard labour and 
the most rigid economy. We lived very spa- 
ringly. For several years butcher's meat was a 
stranger in the house, while all the members of 
the family exerted themselves to the utmost of 
their strength, and rather beyond it, in the la- 
bours of the farm. My brother, at the age of 
thirteen, assisted in thrashing the crop of corn, 
and at fifteen was the principal labourer on the 
farm, for we had no hired servant, male or fe- 
male. The anguish of mind we felt at our ten- 
der years, under these straits and difficulties, 
was very great. To think of our father grow- 
ing old, (for he was now above fifty), brokea 
down with the long continued fatigues of his 
life, with a wife and five other children, and in 
a declining state of circumstances, these reflec- 
tions produced in my brother's mind and mine 
sensations of the deepest distiess. I doubt not 
but the hard labour and sorrow of this pe- 
riod of his life, was in a great measure the cause 
of that depression of spirits with which Robert 
was so often afflicted through his whole li/e af- 
terwards. At this time he was almost con- 
stantly afflicted in the evenings with a dull 
headache, which, at a future period of his life, 
was exchanged for a palpitation of the heart, 
and a threatening of fainting and suffocation in 
his bed, in the night-time. 

By a stipulation in my father's lease, he had 
a right to throw it up, if he thought proper, at 
the end of every sixth year. He attempted to 
fix himself in a better farm at the end of the 
first six years, but failing in that attempt, he 
continued where he was for six yean, more. He 
then took the farm of Lochlea, of J 30 acres, at 
the rent of twenty shillings an acre, in the pa- 
rish of Tarbolton, of Mr. , then 

a merchant in Ayr, and now (1797) a merchant 
in Liverpool. He removed to this farm at 
Whitsunday, 1777, and possessed it only seven 
years. No writing had ev'er been made out of 
the conditions of the lease j a misunderstanding 
took place respecting them ; the subjects in dis- 
pute were submitted to arbitration, and the de- 
cision involved my father's affairs in ruin. He 
lived to know of this decision, but not to see any 
execution in consequence of it. He died on the 
13th of February, 1784. 

The seven years we lived in Tarbolton parish 
(extending from the seventeenth to the twenty, 
fourth of my brother's age), were not marked 



! I 



li 



II 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



28& 



bv mucn literary improvement ; but during 
tnis time the foundation was laid of certain ha- 
bits in my brother's character, which afterwards 
became but too prominent, and which malice 
and envy have taken delight to enlarge on. 
Though, when young, he was bashful and awk- 
ward in his intercourse with women, y< t when 
he approached manhood, his attachment to their 
society became very strong, and he was con- 
stantly t \e victim of some fair enslaver. The 
symptoms of his passion were often such as 
nearly to equal those of the celei)rated Sappho. 
I never indeed knew that he fainted, sunk, and 
died away ; but the agitations of his mind and 
body exceeded any thing of the kind I ever 
knew in real life. He had always a particular 
jealousy of people who were richer than him- 
self, or who had more consequence ii) life. His 
love, therefore, rarely settled on persons of this 
description. When he selected any one, out of 
the sovereignty of his good p.^asure, to whom 
he should piy his particular attention, she was 
instantly invested with a sufficient stock of 
charms, out of the plentiful stores of his own 
imagination ; and there was often a great dis- 
similitude between his fair captivator, as she 
appeared to others, and as she seemed when in- 
vested with the attributes he gave her. One 
generally reigned paramount in his affections ; 
but as Yorick's affections flowed out toward 

Madame de L at the remise door, while 

the eternal vows of Eliza were upon him, so 
Robert was frequently encountering other at- 
tractions, which formed so many under plots in 
the drama of his love. As these connections 
were governed by the strictest rules of virtue 
ind modesty (from which he never deviated till 
he reached his 23d year), he became anxious to 
be in a situation to marry. This was not likely 
to be soon the case while he remained a farmer, 
as the stocking of a farm required a sum of 
money he had no probability of being master of 
for a great while. He began, therefore, to think 
of trying some other line of life. He and I had 
for sevei'al years taken land of my father for the 
purpose of raising flax on our own account. In 
the course of selling it, Robert began to think 
of turning flax-dresser, both as being suitable to 
his grand view of settling in life, and as sub- 
servient to the flax raising. He accordingly 
wrought at the business of a flax-dres«er in 
Irvine for six months, but abandoned it at that 
period, as neither agreeing with his health nor j 
inclination. In Irvine he had contracted some 
acquaintance of a freer manner of thinking and . 
living than he had been used to, whose society | 
prepared him for overleaping the bounds of rigid 
virtue which had hitherto restrained him. To- 
wards the end of the period under review (in 
his 24th year), and soon after his father's death, 
he was furnished with the subject of his epistle 
to John Rankin. During this period also he 
became a freemason, which was his first intro- 
duction to the life of a boon companion. Yet, 
notwithstanding these circumstances, and the 



praise he has bestowj;d on Scotch drink (which 
seems to have misled his historians), I do not 
recollect, during these seven years, nor till to- 
wards the end of his commencing author (when 
his gi owing celebrity occasioned his being often 
in company), to have ever seen him intoxicated, 
nor was he at all given to drinking. A stronger 
proof of the general sobriety of his conduct need 
not be required than what I am about to give. 
During the whole of the time we lived in the 
firm of Lochlea with my father, he allowed my 
brother and me such wages for our labour as he 
gave to other labourers, as a part of which, 
every article of our clothing manufactured in 
the family was regularly accounted for. When 
my father's affairs drew near a crisis, Robert 
and I took the farm of Mossgiel, consisting of 
1 18 acres, at the rent of -£90 per annum (the 
farm on which I live at present) from Mr. Ga- 
vin Hamilton, as an asylum for the familv in 
rase of the worst. It was stocked by the pro- 
perty and individual savings of the whole family, 
and was a joint concern among us. Every mem- 
ber of the family was allowed ordinary wages 
for the labour he performed on the farm. iSly 
brother's allowance and mine was seven pounds 
per annum each. And during the whole time 
this family concern lasted, which was four years, 
as well as during the pi-eceding period at Loth- 
lea, his expenses never in one year exceeded his 
slender income. As I was intrusted with the 
keeping of the family accounts, it is not possi- 
ble that there can be any fallacy in this state- 
ment in my brother's favour. His temperance 
and frugality were every thing that could be 
wished. 

The farm of Mossgiel lies very high, and 
mostly on a cold wet bottom. The first four 
years that we were on the farm were very frosty, 
and the spring was very late. Our crops in 
consequence were very unprofitable ; and, not- 
withstanding our utmost diligence and economy, 
we found ourselves obliged to give up our bar- 
gain, with the loss of a considerable part of our 
original stock. It was during these four years 
that Robert formed his connection with Jean 
Armour, afterwards Mrs. Burns. This connec- 
tion coidd no longer be concealed, about the 
time we came to a final determination to quit 
the farm. Robert durst not engage witli a 
family in his poor unsettled state, but was an- 
xious to shield his partner by every means in 
his power from the consequences of their im- 
prudence. It was agreed therefore between 
thein, that they should make a legal acknow- 
ledgment of an irregular and private marriage ; 
that he should go to Jamaica, to push his for- 
time; and that she should remain with her 
father till it might please Providence to put the 
me.ins of supporting a family in his power, 

Mrs. Burns was a great favourite of her fa- 
ther's. The intimation of a private mari-iaga 
was the first suggestion he received of her rtni 
situation. He was in the greatest distress, and 
fainted^ away. The marriage did not aupaw tu 



290 



BURNS' WORKS. 



6im to make the matter any, better. A hus- 
band in Jamaica appeared to him and to his wife 
little better than none, and an eftectual bar to 
any other prospects of a settlement in life that 
their daughter might have. They therefore ex- 
pressed a wish to her, that the written papers 
which respected the marriage should be cancel- 
led, and thus the marriage rendered void. In 
her melancholy state she felt the deepest remorse 
at having brought such heavy affliction on pa- 
rents that loved her so tenderly, and submitted 
to their entreaties. Their wish was mentioned 
to Robert. He felt the deepest anguish of 
mind. He offered to stay at home and provide 
for his wife and family in the best manner that 
his daily labours could provide for them ; that 
being the only means in his power. Even this 
offer they did not approve of ; for, humble as 
Miss Armour's station was, and great though 
her imprudence had been, she still, in the eyes 
of her partial parents, might look to a better 
connexion than that with my friendless and un- 
htippy brother, at that time without house or 
hiding-place. Robert at length consented to 
their wishes ; but his feelings on this occasion 
were of the most distracting nature ; and the 
impression of sorrow was not effaced, till by a 
regular marriage they were indissolubly united. 
In the state of mind which this separation pro- 
duced, he wished to leave the country as soon 
as possible, and agreed with Dr, Douglas to go 
out to Jamaica as an assistant overseer, or, as I 
believe it is called, a book-keeper, on his estate. 
As he had not sufficient money to pay his pas- 
sage, and the vessel in which Dr. Douglas was 
to procure a passage for him was not expected 
to sail for some time, Mr. Hamilton advised him 
to publish his poems in the meantime by sub- 
scription, as a likely way of getting a little mo- 
ney to provide him more liberally in necessaries 
for Jamaica. Agreeably to this advice, sub- 
scription bills were printed immediately, and 
the printing was commenced at Kilmarnock, 
his preparations going on at the same time for 
his voyage. The reception, however, which 
his poems met with in the world, and the friends 
they procured him, made him change his reso- 
lution of going to Jamaica, and he was advised 
to go to Edinburgh to publish a second edition. 
On his return, in happier circumstances, he re 
newed his connexion with Mrs. Burns, and ren- 
dered it permanent by a union for life. 

Thus, Madam, have I endeavoured to give 
you a simple narrative of the leading circum- 
stances in my brother's early life. The remain 
ing part he spent in Edinburgh or in Dumfries, 
shire, and its incidents are as well known to 
you as to me. His genius having procured him 
your patronage and friendship, this gave rise to 
the correspondence between you, in which, I 
believe, his sentiments were delivered with the 
most respectful, but most unreserved confidence, 
»nd which only terminated with the Ust days of 
bds life. 



No. LXVIl. 
FROM MR. MURDOCH 

TO 

DR. MOORE, 

AS TO THE poet's EARLY TUITION. 
SIR, 

I WAS lately favoui-ed with a letter from out 
worthy friend, the Rev. William Adair, in which 
he requested me to communicate to you what 
ever pai'ticulars I could recollect pncerning 
Robert Burns, the Ayrshire poet. My business 
being at present multifai'ious and harassing, my 
attention is consequently so much divided, and 1 
am so little in the habit of expressing my thoughts 
on paper, that at this distance of time I can give 
but a very imperfect sketch of the early part of 
the life of that extraordinary genius with which 
alone I am acquainted. 

William Burnes, the father of the poet, was 
born in the shire of Kincardine, and bred a 
gardener. He had been settled in Ayrshire ten 
or twelve years before I knew him, and had 
been in the service of Mr. Crawford of Doon- 
side. He was afterwards emj)loyed as a gar- 
dener and overseer by Provost Ferguson of 
Doonholm, in the parish of Alloway, which is 
now united with that of Ayr. In this parish, 
on the road side, a Scotch mile and a half from 
the town of Ayr, and half a mile fi'om the 
bridge of Ddou, William Burnes took a piece 
of land, consisting ot about seven acres, part of 
which he laid out in garden ground, and part 
of which he kept to graze a cow, &c. still con- 
tinuing in the employ of Provost Ferguson. 
Upon this little farm was erected a humble 
dwelling, of which William Burnes was the ar- 
chitect. It was, with the exception of a little 
straw, literally a tabernacle of clay. In thla 
mean cottage, of which I myself was at times 
an inhabitant, I really believe there dwelt a 
larger portion of content than in any palace in 
Europe. The Cotters Saturday Night, will 
give some idea of the temper and manners that 
prevailed there. 

In 1765, about the middle of March, Mr. 
W. Burnes came to Ayr, and sent to the school 
where I was improving in writing under my 
good friend Mr. Robinson, desiring that I would 
come and speak to him at a certain inn, and 
bring my writing jook with me. This v/as 
immediately complied with. Having examined 
my writing, he was pleased with it — (you will 
readily allow he was not difficult), an<l told nie 
that he had received very satisfactory inform. i- 
tion of Mr. Tenmtnt, tt e nraster of the Eng- 
lish school, concerning my improvement in 
English, and in his method of teiching. In 
the month of May following, I was engaged by 
Mr. Burnes, and four of his neighbours, to teach, 
and accordingly began to teach the little school 
:i Alloway, which was situated a few yardsi 



._J 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



29 i 



from the argillaceous fabric above mentioned. 
My five employers undertook to board me by 
turns, and to make up a certain salary, at the 
end of the year, provided my quarterly pay- 
ments from the different pupils did not amount 
to that sum. 

My pupil, Robert Burns, was then between 
six and seven years of a^e ; his preceptor about 
eighteen. Robert and his younger brother Gil- 
bert, had been grounded a little in English be- 
fore they were put under my care. They both 
juade a rapid progress in reading, and a tolerable 
progress in writing. In reading, dividing words 
into syllables by rule, spelling without book, 
parsing sentences, &c., Robert and Gilbert were 
generally at the upper end of the class, even 
when ranged with boys by far their seniors. 
The books most commonly used in the school 
were, the Spelling Book., the Ncio Testament, 
the Bible, Mason^s Collection of Prose and 
Verse, and Fisher^s English Grammar, They 
committed to memory the hymns, and other 
poems of that collection, with uncommon facili- 
ty. This facility was partly owing to the me- 
thod pursued by their father and me in instruct- 
ing them, which was, to make them thoroughly 
acquai-nted with the meaning of every word in 
each sentence that was to be committed to me- 
mot-y. By the bye, this may be easier done, and 
at an earlier period, than is generally thought. 
As soon as they were capable of it, I taught them 
to turn verse into its natural prose order ; some- 
times to substitute synonymous expressions for 
poetical words, and to supply all the ellipses. 
These, you know, are the means of knowing that 
the pupil understands his author. These are 
excellent helps to the arrangement of words in 
sentences, as well as to a variety of expression. 

Gilbert always appeared to me to possess a 
more lively imagination, and to be more of the 
wit, than Robert. I attempted to teach them a 
little chwch music. Here they were left far be- 
hind by all the rest of the school. Robert's ear, 
in particular, was remarkably dull, and his voice 
untunable. It was long before I could get them 
to distinguish one tune from another. Robert's 
countenance was generally grave, and expressive 
nf a serious, contemplative, and thoughtful mind. 
Gilbert's face said, Mirth, with thee I mean to 
live ; and certainly, if any person who knew the 
two boys, had been asked which of them was 
the most likely to court the muses, he would 
surely never have guessed that Robert had a 
propensity of that kind. 

In the year 1767, Mr. Burnes quitted his 
mud edifice, and took possession of a farm 
(Mount Oliphant) of his own improving, while 
in the service of Provost Ferguson. This farm 
being at a considerable distance from the school, 
the boys could not attend regularly ; and some 
changes taking place among the other sup- 
porters of the school, I left it, having continued 
to conduct it for nearly two years and a half. 

In the year 1772, I was appointed (being one 
of five candidates who were examined) to teach 



the English school at Ayr ; and in T 773, Robert 
Burns came to board and ledge with me, for the 
purpose of revising English grammar, he. that 
he might be better qualified to instruct his bro- 
thers and sisters at home. He was now with 
me day and night, in school, at meals, and in all 
my walks. At the end of one week, I told him, 
that, as he was now pretty much master of the 
parts of speech, &c., I should like to teach him 
something of French pronunciation, that when 
he should meet with the name of a French town, 
ship, oflScer, or tjie like, in the newspapers, he 
might be able to pronounce it something like a 
French word. Robert was glad to hear this pro- 
posal, and immediately we attacked the French 
with great courage. 

Now there was little else to be heard but the 
declension of nouns, the conjugation of verbs, 
&c. When walking together, and even at meals, 
I was constantly telling him the names of differ- 
ent objects, as they presented themselves, in 
French ; so that he was hourly laying in a stock 
of words, and sometimes little phrases. In short, 
he took such pleasure in learning, and I in teach- 
ing, that it was difficult to say which of the two 
was most zealous in the business ; and about the 
end of the second week of our study of the 
French, we began to read a little of the Adven- 
tures of Telemachus, in Fenelon's own words. 

But now the plains of Mount Oliphant began 
to whiten, and Robert waS summoned to relin- 
quish the pleasing scenes that surrounded the 
grotto of Calypso, and, armed with a sickle, to 
seek glory by signalizing himself in the fields of 
Ceres — and so he did ; for although but about 
fifteen, I was told that he performed the work 
of a man. 

Thus was I deprived of my very apt pupil, 
and consequently agreeable companion, at the 
end of three weeks, une of which was spent en- 
tirely in the study of English, and the other two 
chiefly in that of French. I did not, however, 
lose sight of him ; but was a frequent visitant 
at his father's house, when I had my half-holi- 
day, and very often went accompanied with one 
or two persons more intelligent than myself, that 
good William Burnes might enjoy a mental feast. 
— Then the labouring oar was shifted U) some 
other hand. The father and the son sat down 
with us, when we enjoyed a conversation, where- 
in solid reasoning, sensible remark, and a mo- 
derate seasoning of jocularity, were so nicely 
blended as to render it palatable to all parties, 
Robert had a hundred questions to ask me about 
the French, &c. ; and the father who had al- 
ways rational information in view, had still 
some question to propose to my more learned 
I friends, upon moral or natural philosophy, or 
j some such interesting subject. Mrs. Burnes 
! too was of the party as much as possible ; 

" But stir, the house affairs would draw her thenoa 
Which ever as she could with haste dispatch. 
She'd come again, and, with a greedy ear 
Devour up theij- discourse." 



29S 



BURNS' WORKS. 



and pai ticularly that of her husband. At all 
times, and in all companies, she listened to him 
with a moi e marked atteutioi . than to any body else. 
When under the necessity of being absent while 
he was speak i no-, phe seemed to regret, as a real 
loss, that she had missed what the good man 
had said. This worthy woman, Agnes Brown, 
had the most thorough esteem for her husband 
of any woman I ever knew. I can by no means 
wonder that she highly esteemed him ; for I 
myself have always considered William Burnes 
as by far the best of the human race that ever 
had the pleasure of being acquainted with — 
and many a w<;rthy character I have known. 
I can cheerfully join with Robert in the last line 
of his epitaph (borrowed from Goldsmith), 

' And even his failings lean'd to virtue's side." 

He was an excellent husband, if I may judge 
from his assiduous attention to the ease and 
comfort of his worthy partner, and from her 
affectionate behaviour to him, as vi^ell as her 
unwearied attention to the duties of a mother. 

He was a tender and affectionate father ; he 
took pleasure in leading his children in the path 
of virtue ; not in driving thera, as some parents 
do, to the performance of duties to which they 
themselves are averse. He took care to find 
fault but very seldom ; and thei'efore, when he 
did rebuke, he was listened to with a kind of 
reverential awe. A look of disapprobation was 
felt ; a reproof was severely so ; and a stripe 
with the taws, even on the skirt of the coat, 
gave heart-felt pain, produced a loud lamenta- 
tion, and brought forth a flood of teai's. 

He had the art of gaining the esteem and 
good-will of those that were labourers under 
him. I think I never saw him angry but 
twice . the one time it was with the foreman of 
the band, for not reaping the field as he was de- 
sired ; and the other time. It was with an old 
man, for using smutty Inuendoes and double en- 
tendres. Were every foul-moutlied old man to 
receive a seasonable check in this way, it would 
be to the advantage of the rising generation. 
As he was at no time overbearing to inferiors, 
he was equally incapable of that passive, pitiful, 
paltry spirit, that induces some people to keep 
booing and booing in the presence of a great 
man. He always treated superiors with a be- 
coming respect ; but he nevjr gave the smallest 
encouragement to aristocratical arrogance. But 
I must not pretend to give you a description of 
all the manly qualities, the rational and Chris- 
tian virtues of the venerable William Burnes. 
Time would fail me- I shall only add, that he i 
tarefully practised every known duty, and avoid- i 
ed every thing that was criminal ; or, in the j 
ppostle's words, Herein did he exercise him- 
self, in living a life void of tffince towards \ 
God and towards men. O for a world of men I 
of sudi dispositions ! We should then have no . 
wars. I tiave often wished, for the good of, 
mankind, that it were as custinuarj to honour i 



and perpetuate the memory of those who excel 
In moral rectitude, as It is to extol what art 
called heroic actions : then would the mausole* 
ura of the friend of my youth overtop and sur- 
pass most of the monuments I see in Westmin- 
ster Abbey. 

Although I cannot do justice to the charac- 
ter of this worthy man, yet you will perceive, 
from these few particulars, what kind of person 
had the principal hand in the education of out 
poet. He spoKe the English language with 
more propriety (both with respect to diction 
and pronunciation), than any man I ever knew, 
with no greater advantages. This had a very 
good effect on the boys, who began to talk, and 
reason like men, much sooner than their neigh- 
bours I do not recollect any of their cotempo- 
raries, at my little seminary, who afterwards 
made any great figure as literary characters, ex- 
cept Dr. Tenant, who was chaplain to Colonel 
Fullarton's regiment, and who is now in the 
East Indies. He is a man of genius and learn- 
ing ; yet affable, and free from pedantry. 

Mr. Burnes, in a short time, found that he 
had overrated Mount Oliphant, ami that he 
could not rear his numerous family upon it.— 
After being there some years, he removed to 
Lochlea, In the parish of Tarbolton, where, 1 
believe, Robert wrote most of his poems. 

But here, Sir, you will permit me to pause. 
I can tell you but little more relative to our 
poet. I shall, however, in my next, send you 
a copy of one of his letters to me, about the 
year 1783. I received one since, but it is mis- 
laid. Please remember me, in the best man- 
ner, to my worthy friend Mr. Adair, when you 
see him or write to him. 

Hart Street, Bloomsbuiy Square, 
Loudon, Feb. 22, 1799. 



No. Lxvni. 

FROM PROFESSOR DUG ALD STEWART 

TO 

DR. MOORE, 

CONTAINING HIS SKETCHES OF THE POET. 

The first time I saw Robert Burns was on 
the 23d of October, 1786, when he dined at my 
house In Ayrshire, together with our common 
friend Mr. John Mackenzie, surgeon in Mauch- 
line, to whom I am indebted for the pleasure ol 
his acquaintance. I am enabled to mention the 
date particularly, by some verses which Burns 
wrote after he returned home, and in which the 
day of our meeting is recorded. My excelitnt 
and much lamented friend, the late Basil, Lord 
Daer, happened to arrive at Catriiie the same 
day, and by the kindness and frankness of his 
manners, left an Impression on the jiiind of the 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



293 



poet, whic ni /er was effaced. The verses I 
allude to iiie among the most imperfect of his 
. pieces , but a few stanzas may perhaps be an 
object of curiosity to you, both on ac«>unt of 
the character to which they relate, and of the 
h'ght which they throw on the situation and 
feelings of the writer, before his name was 
known to the public. * 

I cannot positively say, at this distance of 
time, whether, at the period of our first ac- 
quaintance, the Kilmarnock edition of his poems 
had been just published, or, was yet in the press. 
I suspect that the latter was the case, as I have 
•itill in my possession copies in his own hand- 
wriniig, or some of his favourite performances ; 
piirticularly of his verses " on turning up a 
Mouse with his plough ;" — *' on the Mountain 
Daisy ;" and " the Lament." On my return to 
Edinburgli, I showed the volume, and mention- 
ed what I knew of the author's history, to se- 
veral of my friends, and among others, to Mr. 
Henry Mackenzie, who first recommended him 
to public notice in the 97th number of The 
Lounger. 

At this time Burns's prospects in life were so 
extremely gloomy, that he had seriously formed 
a plan of going out to Jamaica in a very humble 
situation, not, however, without lamenting, that 
his want of patronage should force him to think 
of a project so repugnant to his feelings, when 
his ambition aimed at no higher an object than 
the station of an exciseman or gauger in his own 
country. 

His manners were then, as they continued 
ever afterwards, simple, manly, and indepen- 
dent ; strongly expressive of conscious genius 
and worth ; but without any thing that indica- 
ted fi)rwardness, arrogance, or vanity. He' took 
his share in conversation, but not more than 
belonged to him ; and listened with apparent 
attention and deference, on subjects where his 
want of education deprived him of the means of 
information. If there had been a little more of 
gentleness and accommodation in his temper, he 
would, I think, have been still more interest- 
ing ; but he had been accustomed to give law 
in the circle of his ordinary acquaintance ; and 
his dread of any thing approaching to meanness 
or st'rvility, lendered his manner somewhat de- 
cided and hard. Nothing, perhaps, was more 
remarkable among his various attainments, than 
the fluency, and precision, and originality of 
his language, when he spoke in company ; more 
particularly as he aimed at purity in his turn of 
expression, and avoided more successfully than 
most Scotchmen, the peculiarities of Scottish 
phraseology. 

He came to Edinburgh early in the winter 
follovving, and remained there for several months. 
By whose advice he took this step, I am unable 
,0 say. Perhaps it was suggested only by his 
own curiosity to sue a little more of the world ; 
but, I confess, I dreaded the consequences from 



• See Songs, p. 210. 



the first, and a«ways wished that his pursnif;? 
and habits should continue the same as in the 
former part of life ; with the addition of, wViai 
I considered as then completely within his reach, 
a good farm on moderate terms, in a part of the 
country agreeable to his taste. 

The attentions he received during his stay ic 
town from all ranks and descriptions of persons, 
were such as would have turned any head but 
his own. I cannot say that I could perceive 
any unfavourable effect which they left on his 
mind. He retained the same simplicity of man- 
ners an; appearance which had struck me so 
forcibly when I first saw him in the c(!untry ; 
nor did he seem to feel any additional self-im- 
portance from the nuiuber and rank of liis new 
acquaintance. His dress was perfectly suited to 
his station, plain and unpretending, with a suf- 
ficient attention to neatness If I recollect right 
he always wore boots ; and, when on more than 
usual ceremony, buck-skin breeches. 

The variety of his engagements, while in 
Edinburgh, prevented me from seeing him so 
often as I could have wished. In the course of 
the spring he called on me once or twice, at 
my request, early in the morning, and walked 
with me to Braid-Hills, in the neighbourhood 
of the town, when he charmed me still more by 
his private conversation, than he had ever done 
in company. He was passionately fond of the 
beauties of nature ; and I recollect once he told 
me, when I was admiring a distant prospect in 
one of our morning walks, that the sight of so 
many smoking cottages gave a pleasure to his 
mind, which none could understand who had 
not witnessed, like himself, the happiness and 
the worth which they contained. 

In his political principV;s he was then a Ja- 
cobite ; which was perhaps owing partly to 
this, that his father was originally from the es- 
tate of Lord Mareschall. Indeed he did not 
appear to have thought umch on such subjects, 
nor very consistently. He had a very strong 
sense of religion, and expressed deep regret at 
the levity with which he had heard it treated 
occasionally in some convivial meetings which 
he frequented. I speak of him as he was in 
the winter of 1786-7; for afterwards we met 
but seldom, and our conversations turned chiet- 
ly on his literary projects, or his private affairs. 
I do not recollect whether it appears or not 
from any of your letters to me, that you had 
ever seen Burns. If you have, it is superfluous 
for me add, that the idea which his conversa 
tion conveyed of the powers of his mind, ex- 
ceeded, if possible, that which is suggested by 
his writings. Among the poets whom I have 
happened to k.'iow, I have been struck, in more 
than one instance, with the unaccountable dis- 
pirity between their general talents, and the oc- 
casional inspirations of their more favoured mo- 
ments. But all the faculties of Burns's mind 
were, as far as I could judge, j?qually vigorous ; 
and his predilection for poetry was rather the 
j result of his own enthusiastic and impassioned 



l: 



294 



BQRNS' WORKS. 



temper, than of a "genius exclusively adapted to 
that species of composition. From his conver- 
sation I should have pronounced him to be fit- 
ted to excel in whatever walk of ambition he 
had chosen to exert his abilities. 

Among the subjects on which he was accus- 
tomed to dwell, the characters of the individu- 
als with whom he happened to meet, was plain- 
ly a favourite one. The remarks he made on 
them were always shrewd and pointed, though 
frequently inclining too much to sarcasm. His 
praise of those he loved was sometimes indiscri- 
minate and extravagant ; but this, I suspect, 
proceeded rather from the caprice and humour 
of the moment, than from the effects of attach- 
ment in blinding his judgment. His wit was 
ready, and always impressed with the marks of 
a vigorous understanding ; but, to my taste. 
not often pleasing or happy. His attempts at 
epigram, in his printed works, are the only per- 
formances, perhaps, that he has produced, to- 
tally unworthy of his genius. 

In summer, 1787, I passed some weeks in 
Ayrshire, and saw Burns occasionally. I think 
that he made a pretty long excursion that sea- 
son to the Highlands, and that he also visited 
what Beattie calls the Arcadian ground of Scot- 
land, upon the banks of the Teviot and the 
Tweed. 

I should have mentioned before, that not- 
withstanding various reports I heard during the 
preceding winter, of Burns's predilection for 
convivial, and not very select society, I should 
have concluded in favour of his habits of so- 
briety, from all of him that ever fell under my 
own observation. He told me indeed himself, 
that the weakness of his stomach was such as 
to deprive him entirely of any merit in his tem- 
perance. I was however somewhat alarmed 
about the effect of his now comparatively seden- 
tary and luxurious life, when he confessed to 
me, the first night he spent in my house after 
his winter's campaign in town, that he had been 
much disturbed when in bed, by a palpitation 
at his heart, which, he said, was a complaint 
to which he had of late become subject. 

In the course of the same season, I was led 
by curiosity to attend for an hour or two a Ma- 
son-Lodge in Mauchline, where Burns presided. 
He had occasion to make some short unpre- 
meditated compliments to different individuals 
from whom he had no reason to expect a visit, 
and every thing be said was happily conceived, 
and forcibly as well as fluently expressed. If 
I am not mistaken, he told me, that ir ♦hat 
village, before going to Edinburgh, he had be- 
longed to a small club of such of the inhabi- 
tants as had a taste for books, when they used 
to converse and debate on any interesting ques- 
tions that occurred to them in the course of 
-heir reading. His tmanner of speaking in pub- 
hc had evidently the marks of some practice in 
extempore elocution. 

I must not omit to mention, what I have al- 
ways considered as characteristical in a high 



degree of true genius, the extreme facility «n« 
good nature of his taste, in judging of the conv- 
positions of otheis, where there was any reai 
ground for praise. I repeated to him many 
passages of English poetry with which he was 
unacquainted, and have more than once wit- 
nessed the tears of admiration and rapture with 
which he heard them. The collection of songs 
by Dr. Aiken, which I first put into his hands, 
he read with unmixed delight, notwithstanding 
his former efforts in that very difficult species 
of writing ; and I have little doubt that it had 
some effect in polishing his subsequent compo- 
sitions. 

In judging of prose, I do not think his taste 
was equally sound. I once read to him a pas- 
sage or two in Franklin's Works, which I 
thought very happily executed, upon the model 
of Addison ; but he did not appear to relish, or 
to perceive the beauty which they derived from 
their exquisite simplicity, and spoke of them 
with indifference, when compared with the 
point, and antithesis, and quaintness of Junius. 
The influence of this taste is very perceptible 
in his own prose compositions, although their 
great and various excellencies render some of 
them scarcely less objects of wonder than his 
poetical performances. The late Dr. Robertson 
used to say, that, considering his education, the 
former seemed to him the more extraordinary of 
the two. 

His memory was uncommonly retentive, at 
least for poetry, of which he recited to me fre- 
quently long compositions with the most mi- 
nute accuracy. They were chiefly ballads, and 
other pieces in our Scottish dialect ; great part 
of them (he told me) he had learned in his 
childhood, from his mother, who delighted in 
such recitations, and whose poetical taste, rude 
as it probably was, gave, it is presumable, the 
first direction to her son's genius. 

Of the more polished verses which acciden- 
tally fell into his hands in his early years, he 
mentioned particularly the recommendatory 
poems, by different authors, prefixed to Hervey's 
Meditations ; a book which has always had a 
very wide circulation among such of the coun- 
try people of Scotland, as affect to unite sorr»' 
degree of taste with their religious studies. And 
these poems (although they are certainly below 
mediocrity) he continued to read with a degree 
of rapture beyond expression. He took notice 
of this fact himielf, as a proof how much the 
taste is liable to be influenced by accidental cir- 
cumstances. 

His father appeared to me, from the account 
he gave of him, to have been a respectable and 
worthy character, possessed of a mind superior 
to what might have been expected from his 
station in hfe. He ascribed much of his own 
principles and feelings to the early impressions 
he had received from his instructions and exam- 
ple. I recollect that he once applied to him 
"(and he added, that the passage was a litera 
statement of fact,) the two last lines of the fol 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



295 



lowing passage in the Minstrel ; the whole of 
which he repeated with great euthusiasm : 

" Shall I be left forgotten in the dust, 

When fate, relenting, lets the flower revive ; 
Shall nature's voice, to man alone unjust, 

Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope to 
live ?" 
Is it for this fair Virtue oft must strive 

With disappointment, penury, and pain? 
No ! Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive ; 

And man's majestic beauty bloom again. 
Bright *hruugh th' eternal year of love's trium- 
phant reign. 

This truth sublime, his simple sire had tauyht : 
In sooth, 'twas almost all the shepherd knew. 

With respect to Burns's early education, I 
cannot say any thing with certainty. He al- 
ways spoke with respect and gratitude' of the 
school-master who had taught him to read Eng- 
lish ; and who, finding in his scholar a more 
than ordinary ardour for knowledge, had been 
at pains to instruct him in the grammatical 
principles of the language. He began the study 
of Latin, but dropped it before he had finished 
the verbs. I have sometimes heard him quote 
a few Latin words, such as omnia vincit amor, 
&c., but they seemed to be such as he had 
caught from conversation, and which he re- 
peated by rote. I think he had a project, after 
he came to Edinburgh, of prosecuting the study 
under his intimate friend, the late Mr. Nicoll, 
one of the masters of the grammar-school here ; 
but I do not know that he ever proceeded so 
far as to make the attempt. 

He certainly possessed a smattering of French ; 
and, if he had an affectation in any thing, 
it was in introducing occasionally a word or 
phrase from that language. It is possible that 
his knowledge in this respect might be more 
extensive than I suppose it to be : hut this you 
can learn from his more intimate acquaintance. 
It would be worth while to inquire, whether 
he was able to read the French authors with 
such facility as to receive from them any im- 
provement to his taste. For my own part, I 
doubt it much — nor would I believe it, but on 
very strong and pointed evidence. 

If my memory does not fail me, he was well 
instructed in arithmetic, and knew something 
of practical geometry, particularly of surveying. 
— All his other attainments were entirely his 
own. 

The last time I saw him was during the win- 
ter, J 788-89 ; when he passed an evening with 
niP at Drumsheugh, in the neighbourhood of 
Edinburgh, where I was then living. My friend 
Mr. Alison was the only other person in com- 
pany. I never saw him more agreeable or in- 
teresting. A present which Mr. Alison sent 
him afterwards of his Essays on 7 aste, drew 
from Burns a letter of acknowledgment, which 
I remem'^er to have read with some iegree ofj 



surprise at the distinct conception he appeared 
fk-om it to have formed, of the general piinci- 
ples of the doctrine of association. When 1 
eaw Mr. Alison in Shropshire last autumn, I 
forgot to inquire if the letter be still in exist- 
ence. If it is, you may easily procure it, by 
means of our friend Mr. Houibi-ooke. 



No. LXIX. 
FROM GILBERT BURNS 

TO 

DR. CURRIE, 

GIVING THE HISTORY OF THE ORIGIN OF THjt 
PRINCIPAL POEMS. 

It may gratify curiosity to know some particu- 
lars of the history of the preceding Poems, 
on which the celebrity of our Bard has been 
hitherto founded ; and with this view the 
following extract is made from a letter of 
Gilbert Burns, ihe brother of our Poet, and 
his friend and confidant from his earliest 
years. 

DEAR SIR, Mossgiel, 2d April, 1798, 

Your letter of the I4th of March I received 
in due course, but, from the hurry of the sea- 
son, have been hitherto hindered from answer 
ing it. I will now try to give you what satis.- 
faction I can in regard to the particulars you 
mention. I cannot pretend to be very accurate 
in respect to the dates of the poems, but none 
of them, except Winter, a Dirge, (which was 
a juvenile production), the Death and Dying 
Words of poor Mailie, and some of the songs, 
were composed before the year 1784. The cir- 
cumstances of the poor sheep were pretty inuch 
as he has described them. He had, partly by 
way of frolic, bought a ewe and two lambs from 
a neighbour, and she was tethered m a field ad- 
joining the house at Lochlie. He and I were 
going out with our teams, and our two younger 
brothers to drive for us, at mid- day, when 
Hugh Wilson, a curious looking awkward boy, 
clad in plaiding, came to us with much anxiety 
in his face, with the information that the ewe 
had entangled herself in the tether, and was ly- 
ing in the ditch. Robert was much tickled 
with Hughoc's appearance and postures on the 
occasion. Poor Mailie was set to rights, and 
when we returned from the plough in the even- 
ing, he repeated to me her Death and Dying 
Words pretty much in the way they now stand. 
Among the earliest of his poems was the 
Epistle to Dame. Robert often composed with- 
out any regular plan. When any thing made <» 
strong iinpr>ssion on his mind, so as to rouse \i 



BURNS' WORKS. 



«o poetic exertion, he would give way to the 
impulse, and embody the thought in rhyme. 
If he hit on two or three stanzas to please him, 
he would then think of proper introductory, 
connecting, and concluding stanzas; hence the 
middle of a poem was often first produced. It 
was, I think, in summer 1784, when in the 
'.nterval of harder labour, he and I were weed- 
ing in the garden (kailyard) that he repeated to 
me tiie principal part of this epistle. I believe 
the first idea of Robert's becoming an author 
was started on this occasion. I was much 
pleased with the epistle, and said to him I was 
of opinion it would bear being printed, and 
that it would be well received by people of 
taste ; that I thought it at least equal, if not 
superior, to many of Allan Ramsay's epistles, 
and that the merit of these, and much other 
Scotch poetry, seemed to consist principally in 
the knack of the expression — but here, there 
was a strain of interesting sentiment, and the 
Scotticism of the language scarcely seemed af- 
fected, but appeared to be the natural language 
of the poet ; that, besides, there was certainly 
some novelty in a poet pointing out the conso- 
lations that were in store for him when he 
should go a-begging. Robert seemed very well 
pleased with ray criticism ; and we talked of 
sending it to some magazine, but as this plan 
afforded no opportunity of knowing how it 
would take, the idea was dropped. 

It was, I think, in the winter following, as 
we were going together with carts for coal to 
the family fire (and I could yet point out the 
particular spot), that the author first repeated 
to me the Address to the Deil. The curious 
idea of such an address was suggested to him, 
by running over in his mind the many ludicrous 
accounts and representations we have, from va- 
rious quarters, of this august personage. Death 
and Dr. Hornbook, though not pubHshed in 
the Kilmarnock edition, was produced early in 
the year 1785. The schoolmaster of Tarbolton 
parish, to eke up the scanty subsistence allowed 
to that useful class of men, had set up a shop 
of grocery goods. Having accidentally fallen in 
with some medical books, and become most 
hobby-horsieally attached to the study of medi- 
cine, he had added the sale of a few medicines 
to his little trade. He had got a shop-bill 
printed, at the bottom of which, overlooking 
his own incapacity, he had advertised, that 
" Advice would be given in common disorders 
at the shop, gratis." Robert was at a mason - 
meeting, in Tarbolton, when the " Dominie" 
unfortunately made too ostentatious a display of 
his medical skill. As he parted in the evening 
from this mixture of pedantry and physic, at 
the place where he describes his meeting with 
Death, one of those floating ideas of apparition, 
he mentions in his letter to Dr. Moore, crossed 
his mind ; this set him to work for the rest of 
the way home. These circumstances he relat- 
ed when he repeated the verses to me next af- 
tarnooa, as I was holding the plough, and he 



was letting the watei off the field beside rae 
The Epistle ij John Lapraik was produced 
exactly on the occasion described by the author. 
He says in that poem, On fasten e\n he had a 
rockin. I believe he has omitted the word 
rocking in the glossary. It is a term derived 
from those primitive times, when the country- 
women employed their spare hours in spinning 
on the rock, or distaff. This simple instrument 
is a very portable one, and we)' fitted to the so- 
cial inclination of meeting in a neighbour's 
house ; hence the phrase of going a-rocking or 
with the rock. As the connection the phrase 
had with the implement was forgotten when 
the rock gave way to the spinning-wheel, the 
phrase came to be used by buth sexes on social 
occasions, and men talk of going with their 
rocks as well as women. 

It was at one of these rockings at our house, 
wh( n we hid twelve or fifteen young people with 
their rocks, that Lapraik's song, beginning — . 
" When I upon thy bosom lean," was sung, 
ami we are informed who was the author. 
Upon this Robert wrote his first epistle to Lap- 
raik ; and his second in reply to his answer. 
The verses to the Mouse and Mountain-Daisy 
were composed on the occasions mentioned, and 
while the author was holding the plough ; 1 
could point out the particular spot where each 
was composed. Holding the plough was a fa- 
vourite situation with Robert for poetic compo- 
sitions, and some of his best verses were ])ro- 
duced while he was at that exercise. Seveial 
of the poems were produced for the purpose of 
bringing forward some favourite sentiment of the 
author. He used to remark to rne, that he 
could not well conceive a more mortifying pic- 
ture of human life than a man seeking work. 
In casting about in his mind how this sentiment 
might be brought forward, the elegy Man was 
mode to Mourn, was composed. Robert had 
frequently remarked to rae, that he thought 
theie was aow.c<:hing peculiarly venerable in the 
phrase, " Let us worship God," used by a de- 
cent sober head of a family introducing family 
worship. To this sentiment of the author the 
world is indebt(;d for the Cotter's Saturday 
Night. The hint of the plan, and the title of 
the poem, were taken from Fergusson's Farmer's 
Ingle. When Robert had not some |)leasure in 
view in which I was not thought fit to partici- 
pate, we used frequently to walk together when 
the weather was favourable, on the Sunday af- 
ternoons, (those precious breathing -times to the 
labouring part of the community), and enjoyed 
such Sundays as would make one regret to see 
their number abridged. It was in one of these 
walks that I first had the pleasure of hearing 
the author repeat the Cotter's Saturday Night. 
I do not recollect to have read or heard any 
thing by which I was more highly electrijied, 
The fifth and sixth stanzas, and the eighteenth, 
thrilled with peculiar ecstasy through my soul 
I mention this to you, that you may see what 
hit the taste of wileMered criticism. 1 should 



=.J 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



297 



be giad to know, if the enlightened mind and 
relineu taste of ^Ir. Roscoe, who tas borne such 
nuuouraole testimony to this poem, agrees with 
me in the selection. Fergusson, iu his Hallow 
Fair of Edinburgh, I believe, likewise furnish- 
ed a hint of the title and plan of the Holy Fair. 
The farcical scene the poet there describes 
was often a favourit-e field of his observation, 
and tie most of the incidents he mentions 
had actually passed before his eyes. It is scarce- 
ly necessary to mention, that the Lament was 
composed on that unfortunate passage in his ma- 
trimonial history, which I have mentioned in 
my letter to Mrs. Dunlop, after the first distrac- 
tion of his ftclings had a little subsided. The 
Tilt of Twa Dogs was composed after the re- 
solution of publishing was nearly taken. Robert 
had had a dog, which he called Luath, that was 
a great favourite. The dog had been killed by 
the wanton cruelty of some person the night be- 
fore my father's death. Robert said to me, that 
he should like to confer such immortality as he 
could bestow upon his old friend Luath, and 
that he had a great mind to introduce something 
into the book under the title of Stanzas to the 
Memory of a quadruped Friend ; but this plan 
was given up for the Tale as it now stands. 
CcBsar was merely the creature of the poet's 
imagination, created for the purpose of holding 
chat with his favourite Luath. The first time 
Robert heard the spinnet played upon, was at the 
house of Dr. Lawrie, then minisier of the parish 
«)f Loudon, now in Glasgow, having given up 
the parish in favour of his son. Dr. Lawrie 
has several daughters ; one of them played ; the 
father and mother led down the dance ; the rest 
of the sisters, the brother, the poet, aM<i the 
other guest, mixed in it. It was a d^iibrful 
family scene for our poet, then lately intioduced 
to the world. His mind waa roused to a jxiftic 
enthusiasm, and the stanzas, p. 36, were lefc in 
the room where he slept. It was to Dr. Law- 
rie that Dr. Blacklock's letter was addressed, 
which my brother, in his letter to Dr. Moore, 
mentions as the reason of his going to Edinburgh. 
When my fiither feued his little property near 
\lloway Kirk, the wall of the church -yard had 
gone to ruin, and cattle had free liberty of pas- 
turing in it. My father, with two or three other 
neighbours, joined in an application to the town 
council of Ayr, who were superiors of the ad- 
joining land, tor liberty to rebuild it, and raised 
by subscription a sum for enclosing this ancient 
cemetery with a wall ; hence he came to con- 
sider it as bis burial-place, and we learned that 
reverence for it, people generally have for the 
burial-place of their ancestors. My brother was 
living iu Ellisland, when Captain Grose, on his 
pere;<rinations through Scotland, s.aid some time 
at Curse -house, in the neighbourhood, with 
Captain Robert Riddel, of Glen-Riddell, a parti- 
cular friend of my brother's. The Antiquarian 
ind the Poet were " Unco pack and thick the- 
^ither. '* Robert requested of Captain Grose, 
when he should come co Ayrihirr;, chat lie would 



make a drawing of Al'oway Kiik, as it was the 
burial-place of his father, and where he himsell 
had a sort of claim to lay down his bones when 
they should be no longer serviceable to him ; 
and added, by way of encouragement, that it 
was the scene of many a good story of witches 
and apparitions, of which he knew the Captair 
was very fond. The Captain agreed to the re- 
quest, provided the Puet would furnish a witch- 
story, to be printed along with it. Tarn o' 
Shunter was produced on this occasion, and was 
first published in Grose's Antiquities of Scot- 
land. 

This poem is founded on a traditional story. 
The leading circumstances of a man riding home 
very late from Ayr, in a stormy night, his seeing 
a light in Alluway Kirk, his having the curiosity 
to look in, his seeing a dance of witches, with 
the devil playing on the bag-pipe to them, the 
scanty covering of one of the vv'itches, which 
made him so far forget himself as to cry — " Weel 
loupen, >hort sark !" — with the melancholy ca- 
tastrophe of the piece ; is ail a true story, that 
can be well attested by many respectable old 
people in that neighbourhood. 

I do not at present recollect any circurasUnces 
respectig the other poems, that couM be at all 
interesting ; even some of those I have mention- 
ed, I am afraid, may appear trifling enough, but 
you will only make use of what appears to you 
of consequence. 

The following Poems in the first Edinburgq 
edition, were not in that published in Kilmar 
nock. Death and Dr. Hornbook ; The Srigs 
of Ayr ; The Calf; (the poet had been with 
Mr. Gavin Hamilton in the morning, who said 
jocularly to him when he was going to church, 
in allusion to the injunction of some parents to 
their children, t'nat he must be sure to bring 
him a note of the sermon at mid-day ; this ad- 
dress to the Reverend Gentleinan on his text 
was accordingly produced). The Ordination; 
The Address to the Unco Guid ; Tarn Sam- 
\ son's Elegy; A Winter Night ; Stanzas on 
! the same occasion as the preceding prayer ; 
Verses left at a Reverend Friends house ; The 
firsl Psaltn i Prayer under the j/ressure of vio- 
lent anguish ; The first six verses of the nine' 
ieenth Psalm ; Verses to Mi.ss Logan, with 
JBeattie's Poems ; To a Haggis ; Address to 
Edinburgh ; John Barleycorn ; When Guil- 
ford Guid V Behind yon lulls ichere Stinchar 
flows ; Green grow the Rashes ; Again re-, 
joicing Nature sees ; The gloomy Night ; Ni 
Churchman am I. 



No. LXX. 

FROM GILBERT BURNS 

TO 

DR. CURRIE. 
Dinning, Dumfriesshire, 2Un Oct. 1800. 

DEAR SIR, 

Yours of the 17th instant came to my hand 
T2 



298 



BURNS' WORKS. 



yesterday, and I sit down this afternoon to write 
you in return ; but when I shall be able to 
finish all I wish to say to you, I cannot tell. I 
am sorry your conviction is not complete re- 
specting feck. There is no doubt that if you 
lake two English words which appear synony- 
mous to mony feck, and judge by the rules of 
English construction, it will appear a barbarism. 
I believe if you take this mode of translating 
from any language, the effect will frequently be 
the same. But if you take the expression moiiy 
feck to have, as I have stated it, the same mean- 
ing with the English expression very many, 
(and such license every translator must be al- 
lowed, especially when he translates from a 
simple dialect which has never been subjected 
to rule, and where the precise meaning of words 
is of consequence not minutelv attended to), it 
will be well enough. One thing I am certain 
of, that ours is the sense universally understood 
in this country ; and I believe no Scotsman who 
has lived contented at home, pleased with the 
simple manners, the simple melodies, and the 
simple dialect of his native country, unvitiated 
by foreign intercourse, " whose soul proud 
science never taught to stray," ever discovered 
barbarism in the song of Etrick Banks. 

The story you have heard of the gable of my 
father's house falling down, is simply as fol- 
lows ; — When my father built his " clay big- 
gin," he put in two stone-jambs, as they are 
called, and a lintel, carrying up a chimney in 
his clay- gable. The consequence was, that as 
the gable subsided, the jambs, remaining firm, 
threw it off its centre ; and, one very stormy 
morning, when my brother was nine or ten 
days old, a little before day-light, a part of the 
gable fell out, and the rest appeared so shatter- 
ed, that my mother, with the young poet, had 
to be carried through the storm to a neighbour's 
house, where they remained a week tiil their 
own dwelling was adjusted. That you may not 
think too meanly of this house, or of niy fa- 
ther's taste in building, by supposing the poet's 
description in the Vision (which is entirely a 
fancy picture) applicable to it, allow me to take 
notice to you, that the house consisted of a 
kitchen in one end, and a room in the other, 
with a fire-place and chimney ; that my father 
had constructed a concealed bed in the kitchen, 
with a small closet at the end, of the same ma- 
terials with the house, and, when altogether cast 
over, outside and in, with lime, it had a neat, 
comfortable appearance, such as no family of the 
same rank, in the present improved style of 
living, would think themselves ill-lodged in. I 
wish likewise to take notice in passing, that al- 
though the " Cotter," in the Saturday Night, 
is an exact copy of my father in his manners, 
his family devotion, and exhortations, yet the 
other parts of the description do not apply to 
our family. None of us were ever " at service 
out araang the neebors roun." Instead of our 
depositing our " sair won penny-fee" with our 
parents, my father laboured hard, and lived with 



the most rigid economy, that he might be able 
to keep his children at home, thereby having an 
opportunity of watching the progress of our 
young minds, and forming in them early habita 
of piety and virtue ; and from this motive alone 
did he engage in farming, the source of all his 
difficulties and distresses. 

When I threatened you in my last with a 
long letter on the subject of the books I recom- 
mended to the Mauchline club, and the effects 
of refinement of taste on the labouring classes 
of men, I meant merely that I wished to write 
you on that subject, with the view that, in some 
future communication to the public, you might 
take up the subject more at large, that, by means 
of your happy manner of writing, the attention 
of people of power and influence might be fixed 
on it. I had little expectation, however, that 
I should overcome my indolence, and the diffi- 
culty of arranging my thoughts so far as to put 
my threat in execution, till some time ago, be- 
fore I had finished my harvest, having a call 
from Mr. Ewart, with a message from yeu, 
pressing me to the performance oi this task, I 
thought myself no longer at liberty to decline 
it, and resolved to set about it with my first 
leisure. I will now therefore endeavour to lay 
before you what has occurred to my mind on a 
subject where people capable cf observation, and 
of placing their remarks in a proper point of 
view, have seldom an opportunity of making 
their remarks on real life. In doing this I may 
perhaps be led sometimes to write more in the 
manner of a person communicating information 
to you which you did not know before, and at 
other times more in the style of egotism than I 
would choose to do to any person in whose can- 
doui-, and even personal good-will, I had less 
contidence. 

There are two several lines of study that open 
to every man as he enters life : the one, the ge- 
neral science of life, of duty, and of happiness ; 
the other, the particular arts of his employment 
or situation in society, and the several branches 
of knowledge therewith connected. This last is 
certainly indispensable, as nothing can be more 
disgraceful than ignorance in the way of onf'« 
own profession ; and whatever a man's spetum- 
tive knowledge may be, if he is ill informed 
there, he can neither be a useful nor a respect- 
able member of society. It is nevertheless true, 
that " the proper study of mankind is man ;" 
to consider what duties are encumbent on him 
as a rational creature, and a member of society ; 
how he may increase or secure his happiness ; 
and how he may prevent or soften the many 
miseries incident to human life. I think the 
pursuit of happiness is too frequently contined 
to the endeavour after the acquisition of wealth. 
I do not wish to be considered as an idle de* 
claimer against riches, which, after all that can 
be said against them, will still be considered by 
men of common sense as objects of importance ; 
and poverty will be felt as a sore evil, after aU 
the fine things that can be said of its advau 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



29S 



lages ; on the contrary I am of opinion, that a 
great proportion of the miseries of life arise from 
the want of economy, and a prudent attention 
to money, or the ill-directed or intemperate pur- 
suit of it. But however valuable riches may be 
as the means of comfort, independence, and the 
pleasure of doing good to others, yet I am of 
opinion, that they may be, and frequently are, 
purchased at too great a cost, and that sacrifices 
are made in the pursuit which the acquisition 
cannot compensate. I -emember hearing my 
worthy teacher, Mr. Murdoch, relate an anec- 
dote to my father, which I think sets this mat- 
ter in a strong light, and perhaps was the ori- 
gin, or at least tended to promote this way of 
thinking in me. When Mr. Murdoch left Al- 
loway, he went to teach and reside in the family 
of an opulent farmer who had a number of sons. 
A neighbour coming on a visit, in the course of 
conversation asked the father how he meant to 
dispose of his sons. The father replied, that he 
had not determined. The visitor said, that were 
he in his place he would give them all good 
education and send them abroad, without (per- 
haps) having a precise idea where. The father 
objected, that many young men lost their health 
in foreign countiues, and many their lives. True, 
replied the visitor, but as you have a number of 
sons, it will be strange if some one of them does 
not live and make a fortune. 

Let any person who has the feelings of a fa- 
ther comment on this story : but though few 
will avow, even to themselves, that such views 
govern their conduct, yet' do we not daily see 
people shipping off their sons, (and who would 
do so by their daughters also, if there were any 
demand for them), that they may be rich or 
perish ? 

The education of the lower classes is seldom 
considered in any other point of view than as 
the means of raising them from that station to 
which they were born, and of making a fortune. 
I am ignorant of the mysteries of the art of ac- 
quiring a fortune without any thing to begin with, 
and cannot calculate, with any degree of exact- 
ness, the difficulties to be surmounted, the mor- 
tifications to be suffered, and the degradation 
of character to be submitted to, in lending one's 
self to be the minister of other people's vices, or 
in the practice of rapine, fraud, oppression,- or 
dissimulation, in the progress ; but even when 
the wished for end is attained, it may be ques- 
tioned whether happiness be much increased by 
the change When I have seen a fortunate ad- 
venturer of the lower ranks of life returned from 
the East or West Indies with all the hauteur of 
a vulgar mind accustomed to be served by slaves, 
assuming a character, which, from the early ha- 
bits of life, he is ill fitted to support, displaying 
magnificence which raises the envy of some, and 
the contempt of others ; claiming an equality 
with the great, which they are unwilling to al- 
low ; inly pining at the precedence of the here- 
ditary gentry ; maddened by the polished inso- 
leaee of some of the unworthy part of them ; 



seeking pleasure in the society of men who can 
condescend to flatter him, and listen to his ab- 
surdity for the sake of a good dinner and good 
wine; I cannot avoid concluding, that his bro- 
ther, or companion, who, by a diligent applica- 
tion to the labours of agriculture, or some use- 
ful mechanic employment, and the careful hus- 
banding of his gains, has acquired a competence 
in his station, is a much happier, and, in the 
eye of a person who can take an enlarged view 
of mankind, a much more respectable man. 

But the votaries of wealth may be considered 
as a great number of <-andidates striving for a 
few prizes, and whatever addition the successful 
may make to their pleasure or happiness, the 
disappointed will always have more to suffer, I 
am afraid, than those who abide contented in 
the station to which they were born. I wish, 
therefore, the education of the lower classes to 
be promoted and directed to their improvement 
as men, as the means of increasing their virtue, 
and opening to them new and dignified sources 
of pleasure and happiness. I have heard some 
people object to the education of the lower clas- 
ses of men, as rendering them less useful, by 
abstracting them from their proper business ; 
others, as tending to make them saucy to their 
superiors, impatient of their condition, and tur- 
bulent subjects ; while you, Avith more huma- 
nity, have your fears alarmed, lest the delicacy 
of mind, induced by that sort of education and 
reading I recommend, should render the evils 
of their situation insupportable to tliem. I wish 
to examine the validity of each of these objec- 
tions, beginning with the one you have men- 
tioned. 

I do not mean to controvert your criticism of 
my favourite books, the Mirror and Lounger, 
although I understand there are people who 
think themselves judges, who do not agree with 
you. The acquisition of knowledge, except 
what is connected Vv^ith human life and con- 
duct, or the particular business of his employ- 
ment, does not appear to me to be the fittest 
pursuit for a peasant. I would say with the 
poet, 

" How empty learning, and how vain is wn, 
Save where it guides the life, or mends the 
heart !" 

There seems to be a considerable latitude in 
the use of the word taste. I understand it to 
be the perception and relish of beauty, order, 
or any other thing, the contemplation of which 
gives pleasure and delight to the mind. I sup- 
pose it is in this sense you wish it to be under- 
stood. If I am right, the taste which these 
books are calculated to cultivate, (beside the 
taste for fine writing, which many of the papers 
tend to improve and to gratify), is what is pro- 
per, consistent, and becoming in human cha- 
racter and conduct, as almost every paper relatet 
to these subjects. 

I am sorry I have not these books by ma, 



300 



BURNS' WORKS. 



that I might point out some instances. I re- 
member two ; one, the beautiful story of La 
Roche, where, beside the pleasure one derives 
from a beautiful simple story told in M'Kenzie's 
happiest manner, the mind is led to taste, with 
heartfelt rapture, the consolation to be derived 
in deep affliction, from habitual devotion and 
trust in Almighty God. The other, the story 

of General W , where the reader is led to 

nave a high relish for that firmness of mind 
which disregards appearances, the common forms 
and vanities of life, for the sake of doing justice 
in a case which was out of the reach of human 
laws. 

Allow me then to remark, that if the mora- 
lity of these books is subordinate to the cultiva- 
tion of taste ; that taste, that refinement of 
mind and delicacy of sentiment which they are 
intended to give, are the strongest guard and 
surest foundation of morality and virtue. Other 
moralists guard, as it were, the overt act ; these 
papers, by exalting duty into sentiment, are cal- 
culated to make eveiy deviation from rectitude 
and propriety of couduct, painful to the mind, 

" Whose temper'd powers, 
Refine at length, and every passion wears 
A chaster, milder, more attractive mien." 

I readily grant you that the refinement of 
mind which I contend for, increases our sensi 
bility to the evils of life ; but what station of 
life is without its evils ! There seems to be no 
such thing as perfect happiness in this world, 
and we must balance the pleasure and the pain 
which we derive from taste, before we can pro- 
perly appreciate it in the case before us. I ap- 
prehend that on a minute examination it will 
appear, that the evils peculiar to the lower ranks 
of life, derive their power to wound us, more 
from the suggestions of false pride, and the 
" contagion of luxury weak and vile," than the 
refinement of our taste. It was a favourite re- 
mark of my brother's, that there was no part 
of the constitution of our nature, to which we 
were more indebted, than that by which " cus- 
tom makes things familiar and easy,'' (a copy 
Mr. Murdoch used to set us to write), and there 
is little labour which custom will not make easy 
to a man in health, if he is not ashamed of his 
employment, or does not begm to compare his 
situation with those he may see going about at 
their ease. 

But the man of enlarged mind feels the re- 
spect due to him as a man ; he has learned that 
no employment is dishonourable in itself; that 
while he performs aright the duties of that sta- 
tion in which God has placed him, he is as 
great as a king in the eyes of Him whom he is 
principally desirous to please ; for the man of 
taste, who is constantly obliged to labour, must 
of necessity be religious. If you teach him only 
to reason, you may niake him an atheist, a dema- 
gogue, or any vile thing ; but if you teach him 
to feel, his feelings can only find their proper 



and natural relief in devotion ar»< religious r© 
signation. He knows that those people who are 
to appearance at ease, are not without their 
share of evils, and that even toil itself is not 
destitute of advantages. He listens to the words 
of his favourite poet : 

" O mortal man, that livest here by toil, 

Cease to repine and grudge thy hard estate ; 
That like an emmet thou must ever moil, 

Is a sad sentence of an ancient date ; 
And, certes, there is for it reason great ; 

Although sometimes it makes thee weej) and 
wail. 
And curse thy stars, and early drudge and late ; 

Withouten that would come a heavier bale. 
Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale !" 

And, while he repeats the words, the grateful 
recollection comes across his mind, how often he 
has derived inefikble pleasure from the sweet 
song of " Nature's darling child." I can say, 
from my own experience, that there is no sort 
of farm labour inconsistent with the most re- 
fined and pleasurable state of the mind that I 
am acquainted with, thrashing alone excepted. 
That, indeed, I have always considered as in- 
supportable drudgery, and think the ingenious 
mechanic who invented the thrashing machine, 
ought to have a statue among the benel'actors of 
his country, and should be placed in the niche 
next to the person who introduced the culture 
of potatoes into this island. 

Perhaps the thing of most importance in tho 
education of the common people is, to preven'c 
the intrusion of artificial wants. I bliss the 
memory of my worthy father for almost every 
thing in the dispositions of my mind, and my 
habits of life which I can approve of; and for 
none more than the pains he took to impress my 
mind with the sentiment, that nothing was more 
unworthy the character of a man, than that his 
happiness should in the least depend on what he 
should eat or drink. So early did he impress 
my mind with this, that although I was as fond 
of sweetmeats as children generally are, yet I sel- 
dom laid out any of the half-pence which rela- 
tions or neighbours gave me at fairs, in the pur- 
chase of them ; and if I did, every mouthful I 
swallowed was accompanied with shame and re- 
morse ; and to this hour I never indulge in the 
use of any delicacy, but I feel a considerable de- 
gree of self-reproach and alarm for the degrada- 
tion of the human character. Such a habit ol 
thinking I consider as of great consequfnce, 
both to the virtue and happiness of men in the 
lower ranks of life. And thus. Sir, I am of 
opinion, that if their minds are early and deeply 
imprest with a sense, of the dignity of man, as 
such ; with the love of independence and of in- 
dustry, economy and temperance, as the most 
obvious means of making themselves inde()en- 
dent, and the virtues most becoming their situ- 
ation, and necessary to their happiness ; men iu 
the lower ranks of life may partake of the plea 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



30 



sures to be derived from the perusal of books 
calculated to improve the mind and refine the 
taste, without any danger of becoming more un- 
happy in their situation, or discontented with it. 
Nor do I think there is any danger of their be- 
coming less useful. There are some hours every 
day that the most constant labourer is neither 
at work nor asleep. These hours are either ap- 
propriated to amusement or to sloth. If a taste 
for employing these hours in reading were cul- 
tivated, I do not suppose that the return to la- 
bour would be more difficult. Every one will 
allow, that the attachment to idle amusements, 
or even to sloth, has as powerful a tendency to 
abstract men from their proper business, as the 
attachment to books ; while the one dissipates 
the mind, and the other tends to increase its 
powers of self-governnient. To those who are 
afraid that the improvement of the minds of the 
common people might be dangerous to the state, 
or the established order of society, I would re- 
mark, that turbulence and commotion are cer- 
tainly very inimical to the feelings of a refined 
mind. Let the matter be brought to the test 
of experience and observation. Of what de- 
scription of people are mobs and insurrections 

I j composed ? Are they not universally ow'ng tn 
I the want of enlargtmient and improvement of 

I j mind among the common people ? Nay, lot 
any one recollect the characters of those who 
formed the calmer and more deliberate associa- 
tions, which lately gave so much alarm to the 
governinent of this country. I suppose few of 
the common people who were to lie found 
such societies, had the education and turn of 
mind I have been endeavouring to retommeml. 
Allow me to suggest one reason for endeavour- 
ing to enlighten the minds of the common peo- 
ple. Their morals have hitherto been guarded 
by a sort of dim religious awe, which from a 
variety of causes seems wearing off. I think the 
alteration in this respect considerable, in the 
short period of my observation. 1 have already 
given my opinion of the effects of refinement of 
mind on morals and virtue. Whenever vulgar 
minds begin to shake off the dogmas of the re- 
ligion in which they have been educated, the 
progress is quick and immediate to downright 
infidelity ; and nothing but refinement of mind 
can enal)le them to distinguish between the pure 
es-ence of religion, and the gross systems which 
men have been perpetually connecting it with. 
In addition to what has already been done for 
the education of the common jieople of this coun- 
try, in the establishment of parish schools, I 
wish to see the salaries augmented in some pro- 
portion to the present expense of living, and the 
earnings of people of similar rank, endowments 
and usefulness, in society ; and I hope that the 
liberality of 4he present age will be no longer 
disgraced by refusing, to so useful a class of men, 
such encouragement as may make parish schools 
worth the attention of men fitted for the impor- 
tant duties of that office. In filling up the va- 
cancies, I wouJd have more attention paid to the 



candidate's capacity of leading .hf English Ian 
guage with grace and propriety ; to his under 
standing thoroughly, and having a high relish 
for the beauties of English authors, both in poetry 
and prose ; to that good sense and knowledge 
of human nature which would enable him to ac- 
qvire some influence on the minds and affections 
of his scholars ; to the genera! worth of his cha- 
racter, and the love of his king and his country, 
than to his proficiency in the knowledge of Latin 
and Greek. I would then have a sort of high 
English class established, not only for the pur- 
pose of teaching the pupils to read in that grace- 
ful and agreeable manner that might make them 
fond of reading, but to make them understand 
what they read, and discover the beauties of the 
author, in composition and sentiment. I would 
have established in every parish a small circu- 
lating library, consisting of the books which the 
young people had read extracts from in the col- 
lections they had read at school, and any other 
books well calculated to refine the mind, improve 
the moral feelings, recommend the practice cj 
virtue, and communicate such knowledge as 
might be useful and suitable to the labouring 
classes of men. I would have the schoolmaster 
act as librarian, and in recommending books to 
his young friends, formerly his pupils, and let- 
ting in the light of them upon their young minds, 
he should have the assistance of the minister. 
If once such education were become general, 
the low delights of the public-house, and other 
scenes of riot and depravity, would be contenm- 
ed and neglected, while industry, order, cleanli- 
ness, and every virtue which taste and indepen- 
dence of mind could recommend, would prevail 
and flourish. Thus possessed of a virtuous and 
enlightened populace, with high delight I should 
consider my native country as at the head of all 
the nations of the earth, ancient or modern. 

Thus, Sir, have I executed my threat to the 
fullest extent, in regard to the length of my let- 
ter. If I had not presumed on doing it more 
to my liking, I should not have undertaken it ; 
but I have not time to attempt it anew ; nor, if 
I would, am I certain that I should succeed any 
better. I have learned to have less confidence 
in my capacity of writing on such subjects. 

I am much obliged by your kind inquiries 
about my situation and prospects. I am much 
pleased with the soil of this farm, and with the 
terms on which I possess it. I receive great 
encouragement likewise in building, enclosing, 
and other conveniences, from my landlord Mr. 
G. S. Monteith, whose general character and 
conduct, as a landlord and country gentlema 
I am highly pleased with. But the land is in 
such a state as to require a considerable imme- 
diate outlay of money in the purchaf-e of ma- 
nure, the grubbing of^ brush-wood, removing of 
stones, &c. which twelve years' struggle with a 
farm of a cold ungrateful soil has but ill prepar. 
ed me for. If I can get these things done, 
however, to my mind, I think there is next to 
a certainty that in five or six years I shall be ic 



302 



BURN:S' WORKS. 



a hopeful way of attaining a situation which I 
think is ehgible for happiness as any one I 
know ; for I have always been of opinion, that 
if a man, bred to the habits of a farming life, 
who possesses a farm of good soil, on such'terms 
ds enables him easily to pay all demands, is not 
haoDV, he ought to look somewhere else than to 
nis situation for the causes of his uneasiness. 

I beg you will present my most respectful 
compliments to Mrs. Currie, and remember me 
to Mr. and Mrs. Roscoe, and Mr. Ro^coe jun. 
whose kind attentions to me, when in Liverpool, 

I shall never forget 1 am, dear Sir, your most 

obedient, and much obliged humble servant, 

GILBERT BURNS. 



DEATH AND CHARACTER OF 
GILBERT BURXS. 

_ This most worthy and talented individual 
tied at Grant's Braes, in the neighbourhood of 



m February 1 788, hi received, as the profits vi 
his second publication, about £500, and with 
that generosity, which formed a part of his na- 
ture, he immediately presented Gilbert witn 
nearly the half of his whole wealth. Thus suc- 
coured, the deceased married a Miss Brecken ridge, 
and removed to a better farm (Dinning in Dum- 
friesshire ), but still reserved a seat at the fami- 
ly board for his truly venerable mother, who died 
a few years ago. While in Dinning, he was re- 
commended to Lady Blantyre ; and though our 
memory does not serve us precisely as to date, 
be must have been an inhabitant of East Lothian, 
for very nearly a quarter of a century. Her 
Ladyship's affairs were managed with the greatest 
fidelity and prudence ; the factor and his con- 
stituent were worthy of each other ; and in a 
district distinguished for ±e skill, talents, and 
opulence of its farmers, no man was more le- 
spected then Mr. Gilbert Burns. His wife, 
who still survives, bore him a family of six sons 
and five daughters ; but of these, 



, ,,. , - ..^ .....,.,„. f . u ° "-' "■ — . one son, and 

daddington, and on the estate of Ladv Blan- ' ^^"S'^t^''^. predeceased their father. His 

~yre, for whom he was long factor, on Sund ly "'^Y'^' though limited, were always m:inaged 
Sth April 1827, in the sixty-seventh year of his enviable frugality, as a proof of which we 

* " ' ■ ' - 'may state that every one of his boys received 



age.* He had no fixed or formed complaint, 
but for several months preceding his dissolution, 
there was a gradual decay of the powers of na- 
ture ; and the infirmities of age, combined with 
severe domestic affliction, hastened the release 
of as pure a spirit as ever inhabited a human 
hosom. On the 4tli of January he lost a daugh- 
ter who had long been the pride of the family 
hearth ; and on the 26 th of February following, 
his youngest son,— a youth of great promise, 
died )n Edinburgh of typhus fever, just as he 
was about being licensed for the ministry. These 
repeated trials were too much for the excellent 
old man; the mind which, throughout a long 
and blameless life, had pointed unweariedly to 
Its home in the skies, ceased as it were, to hold 
communion with things earthly, and on the re- 
currence of that hallowed morning, which, like 
his sire of old, he had been accustomed to sanc- 
tify, he expired without a groan or struggle, in 
peace and even love with all mankind, and in 
humble confidence of a blessed immortality— 
The early life of Mr. Gilbert Burns is inti- 
mately blended with that of the poet. He was 
eighteen months younger than Robert-posses- 
sed the .ame penetrating judgment, and, accord- 
mg t(. Mr. Murdoch, their first instructor, sur- 
passed him in vivacity till pretty nearly the age 
of manhood. When the greatest of our bards 



what IS called a classical education. 



No. LXXL 
THE POET'S SCRAP-BOOK. 

The Poet kept a Scrap-Book, which was 
what the title imports, really a thing of shieds 
and patches. In the following extracts, we 
have not been quite so sparing as Dr. Currie, 
whose extracts are above, nor so very profuse ;is 
Mr. Cromek, who, in his Reliques, has turned 
the book inside out. The prose articles aie 
chiefly in the way of maxims or observations 
they have less of worldly selfishness, and more 
of the religious feeling, than those of Rochfon- 
caud : The poetical scraps are numerous— Midi 
of them as are worth preserving, and have not 
already appeared amongst the poems, will be 
found below. 

MV FATHER WAS A FARMER. 
Tune—" The Weaver and his Shuttle, O." 

^nZ!lof ir^l^^^'i"^^ "PO^' the Carrick border, O. 
And carefully he bred m« in decency and order, (> • 

f.fvl^- ^'^V.^ ""^"-y P^'"^' though I had ne-tr a 
lartning, O, 

For wi Aom^an honest manly heart, no man was worth 



, , r^ ^ b.vnucai, KJi our oaras 

was invited by Dr. Blacklock to visit Edinburgh, I^P ""* ^"'^the world my course I did determine, O 
the subject of the present imperfect Memoir was chSminro' "°' '^^' '"''^' ^'^^ '° ^' ^reat was 

strugghrig in the churlish farm of Mossgiel, and | My talents they'were not the worst ; nor yet my edu 
tolling late and early to keep a house over his b.«.i ^f «»' ,0= , ^ ^ " 

aged mother, and unprotected sisters. In these I ""^ ' *° "'^' *° ""'"' "^^ ^'"^''°^" '^• 

circumstances, the poet's success was the first '" ""^"y ^ ^^y, and vain essay, I courted fortune's fa- 
thing that stemmed the ebbing tide of the for ^^nm^ vour, O : 
tuuesofhisiamil,. In settiin5with ftk cijh -T^^^^^^^^ ''^^' ^^--' '« ^-trate 

I ^""^^^ITLH ^°^f ^ ^^^ o'eipow'rd; sometimes by 

• This sketch is by Mr. Macdiarmid. of the Dum- ' And JhlnttV^^^"' ° ' u 
fries Courier, *n which Journil it firsf appeared. J mis" k O^ ""^ '"P' ' *''" ""^ '^^^'^ 



CORRESPONDENCE 



303 



rhen sore harass'd, and tir'd at last, with fortune's 

vain delusion, O ; 
I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this 

conclusion, O ; 
The past was bad, and the future hid ; its good or ill 

untryed, O; 
But the present hour was in my pow'r, and so I would 

enjoy it, O. 

No help, nor hope, nor view had I ; nor person to be- 
friend me, O; 

So must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour to sus- 
tain me, O, 

To plough an(i sow, to reap and mow, my father bred 
me earlv, O ; 

For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for for- 
tune fairly, O. 

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro* life I'm 
doomed to wander, O, 

Till down my weary bones 1 lay in everlasting slum- 
ber, O : 

No view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me 
pain or sorrow O ; 

I live to day, as well's 1 may, regardless of to-mor- 
row, O. 

But cheerful still, I am as well, as a monarch in a pa- 

jace, O, 
Tho' fortune's frown still hunts me down, with all her 

wonted malice. O ; 
1 make indeed, my daily bread, but ne'er can make it 

farther, O ; 
But as fiailv bread is all I need, I do not much regard 

her, O. 

When sometimes by my labour I earn a little money,0, 
Some imforeseen misfortune comes generally upon 

me, O; 
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good-natur'd 

folly, O ; 
But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be 

melancholy, O. 

All you who follow wealth and power with unremit- 
ting ardour, O, 

The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your 
view the farther, O ; 

Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore 
you, O, 

A cheerful honest hearted clown I will prefer before 
you, O. 

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF 
ROBERT RUfSSEAUX.* 

Now Robin lies in his last lair, 

He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, 

Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare, 

Nae mair shall fear him ; 
Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care 

E'er mair come near hiiu. 

To tell the truth, thev seldom fash't him. 
Except the moment that they crush't him; 
For sune as chance or fate had husht 'em, 

Tho' e'er sae short. 
Then wi* a rhyme or song he lasht 'em. 

And thought it sport. — 

Tho' he was bred to kintra wark, 

And counted was baith wight and stark. 

Vet that was never Robin's mark 

To mak a man ; 
But tell him, he was a learn'd dark. 

Ye roos'd him then, f 

Melancholy. — There was a cert tin period of 
my life that my spirit was broke by repeated losses 
and disasters, which threatened, and indeed effect- 
ed, the utter ruin of my fortune. My body too 
was attacked by that most dreadful distemper, 
a hypochondria, or confirmed melancholy : In 
this wretched state, the recollection of which 



♦ Riiisseaux — sf earns — a play on his own name, 
. Ye roos'd— ye prais'd. 



makes me yet shudder, I hung my harp on tl e 
willow trees, except in some lucid intervals, in 
one of which I composed the following. (Here 
follows the prayer in distress, p. 78. ) — March 
1784. 

Religious Sentiment. — What a creature is 
man ! A little alarm last night, and to-day, that 
I am mortal, has made such a revolution on my 
spirits ! There is no philosophy, no divinity, 
that comes half so much home to the mind. I 
have no idea of courage that braves Heaven : 
'Tis the wild ravings of an imaginary hero in 
Bedlam. 

My favourite feature in Milton's Satan is hia 
manly fortitude in supporting what cannot be 
remedied — in short, the wild, broken fragments 
of a noble, exalted mind in ruins. I meant no 
more by saying he was a favourite hero of 
mine. 

I hate the very idea of a controversial divini- 
ty ; as I firmly believe that every honest upright 
man, of whatever sect, will be accepted of the 
deity. I despise the superstition of a fanatic, 
but I love the religion of a man. 

Nothing astonishes me more, when a little 
sickness clogs the wheel of life, than the thought- 
less career we run in tbe hour of health. 
" None saith, where is God, my maker, that 
giveth songs in the night : who teacheth us 
more knowledge than the beasts of the field, 
and more understanding than the fowls of the 
air," 

My creed is pretty nearly expressed in the last 
clause of Jamie Deans grace, an honest weaver 
in Ayrshire ; " Lord grant that we may lead a 
gude life ! for a gude life raaks a gude end, at 
least it helps weel !" 

A decent means of livelihood in the world, an 
approving God, a peaceful conscience, and one 
firm trusty fiiend ; can any body that has these, 
be said to be unhappy ? 

The d-ignified and dignifying consciousness of 
an honest man, and the well grounded trust in 
approving heaven, are two most substantial 
sources of happiness. 

Give me, my Maker, to remember thee ! 
Give me to feel " another's woe ;" and con- 
tinue with me that dear-lov'd friend that feels 
with mine ! 

In proportion as we are wrung with grief, or 
distracted with anxiety, the ideas of a compas- 
sionate Deity, an Almighty Protector, are doubly 
dear. 

I have been, this morning, taking a peep 
through, as Young finely says, " the dark post- 
ern of time long elapsed ;" 'twas a rueful pros- 
pect ! What a tissue of thoughtlessness, weak- 
ness, and folly ! My life reminded me of a ruin- 
ed temple. What strength, what proportion in 
some parts ! What unsightly gaps, what pros- 
trate ruins in others ! I kneeled down before 
the Father of Mercies, and said, •' Father J 
have si .ned agiin.st Heaven, and in thy sight, 
and am no morj worthy to be called thy son.* 
I ros*.^ eased, and strengthened. 



S04 



BURNS' WORKS. 



TTERS, 1788. 



No. Lxxn. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, 2\st Jan. 1788. 
After six weeks' confinement, I am begin- 
oing to walk across the room. They have been 
six horrible weeks ; anguish and low spirits 
made me unfit to read, write, or think. 

I have a hundred times wished that one 
could resign life as an officer resigns a commis- 
I i sion : for I would not take in any poor, igno- 
I I rant wretch, by selling out. Lately I was a 
j I sixpenny private ; and, God knows, a miserable 
I j soldier enough ; now I march to the campaign, 
j j a starving cadet : a little more conspicuously 
I 1 wretched. 

j j I am ashamed of all this ; for though I do 

j I want bravery for the warfare of life, I could 
I j wish, like some othn soldiers, to have as much 
fortitude or cunning a» to dissemble or conceal 
my cowardice. 

As soon as I can bear the journey, which 
will be, I suppose, about the middle of next 
week, I leave Edinburgh, and soon after I shall 
pay my grateful duty at Dunlop-house. 



No. LXXIII. 



EXTRACT OF A LETTER 



TO THE SAME. 



Edinburgh, \2th Feb. 1788. 
Some things, in your late letters, hurt me : 
not that you say them, but that you mistake me. 
Religion, my honoured Madam, has not only 
been all my life my chief dependence, but my 
dearest enjoyment. I have mdeed been the 
luckless victim of wayward follies ; but, alas ! 
I have ever been " more fool than knave." 
A mathematician without religion, is a proba- 
ble character ; an irreligious poet, is a monster. 



No. LXXIV. 

TO A LADY. 

MADAM, Mossg/el, 7th March, 1788. 

The last paragraph in yours of the 30th Fe- 
bruary affected me most, so I shall begin my 
answer where you ended your letter. That I 
am often a sinner with any little wit I have, I 
do confess : but I have taxed my recollection to 
30 purpose, to find out when it was employed 
against you. I hate an ungenerous sarcasm, a 
ereat deal worse than I do the devil ; at least 
x.> Milton describes him ; and though I may be 
raocai.y enough to be sometimes guilty of it my- 
self, 1 cannot endure it in others. You, my 
honoured friend, who cannot appear in any light, 



but you are sure of being re*pectaole — you caa 
afford to pass by an occasion to display your 
wit, because you may depend for fame on your 
sense ; or if you choose to be silent, you know 
you can rely on the gratitude of mauy and the 
esteem of all ; but God help us who are wits or 
witlings by profession, if we stand not for fame 
there, we sink unsupported ! 

I am highly flattered by the news you tell 
me of Coila.* I may say to the fair painter 
who does me so much honour, as Dr. Beattie 
says to Ross the poet, of his Muse Scotia, from 
which, by the bye, I took the idea of Coila : 
('Tis a poem of Beattie's in the Scots dialect, 
which perhaps you have never seen. ) 

" Ye shak your head, but o' my fegs, 
Ye've set auld Scotia on her legs : 
Lang had she lien wl' buffe and flegs, 

Bombaz'd and dizzie, 
Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs, 

Waes me, poor hizzie.** 



No. LXXV. 
TO MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. 

Mauchline, S^st March, 1788. 

Yesterday, my dear Sir, as I was riding 
through a track of melancholy joyless muii>, 
between Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sun- 
day, I turned my thoughts to psalms, and 
hymns, and spiritual songs ; and your favourite 
air, Captain O^ Kean, coming at length in my 
head, I tried these words to it. You will see 
that the first part of the tune must be repeated.f 

I am tolerably pleased with these verses, but 
as I have only a sketch of the tune, I leave it 
with you to try if they suit the measure of the 
music. 

I am so harassed with care and anxiety, about 
this farming project of mine, that my muse has 
degenerated into the veriest prose-wench that 
ever picked cinders, or followed a tinker. When 
I am tairly got into the routine of business, I 
shall trouble you with a longer epistle ; perhaps 
with some queries respecting farming ; at pre- 
sent, the world sits such a load on my mind, 
that it has effaced almost every trace of the 

in me. 



My very best compliments and good wishes 
to Mrs. Cleghorn. 



No. LXXVI. 
FROM MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. 
Saughton Mills, 27th April, 1788. 

MY DEAR BROTHER FARMER, 

I WAS favoured with your very kind letter of 



• A lady was making a picture from the dcscriptioE 
of Coila in the Vision. 

\ Here the bard gives the first stanza of the Cheva 
tier's Lament, 



CORRESPONDENCK 



the 3 1st alt. and consider myself greatly obliged 
to you, for your attention in sending me the 
song to my favourite air, Captai7i O'Kean. 
The words delight me much ; they fit the tune 
to a hair. I wish you would send me a verse 
or two more ; and if you have no objection, I 
would have it in the Jacobite style. Suppose 
it should be sung after the fatal field of Cullo- 
den by the unfortunate Charles : Tenducci per- 
sonates the lovely Mary Stuart in the song 
Queen Mary^s Lamentation. — Why may not 
I sing in the person of her great-great-great 
grandson ?* 

Any skill I have in country business you may 
truly command. Situation, soil, customs of 
countries may vary from each other, but Far- 
mer Attention is a good farmer in every place. 
I beg to hear from you soon. Mrs. Cleghorn 
loins me in best compliments. 

I am, in the most comprehensive sense of the 
word, your very sincere friend, 

ROBERT CLEGHORN. 



No. LXXVll. 
TO MR. JAMES SiAIlTH, 

AVON PRINTFIELD, LINLITHGOW. 

Mauchlirie, April 28, 1 788. 

Beware of your Strasburgh, my good Sir ! 
Look on this as the opening of a correspondence 
like the opening of a twenty-four gun battery ! 

There is no understanding a man properly, 
without knowing something of his previous ideas 
(that is to say, if the man has any ideas ; for I 
know many who in the animal-muster, pass for 
men, that are the scanty masters of only one 
idea on any given subject, and by far the great- 
est ^drt of your acquaintances and mine can 
barely boast of ideas, 1.25 — 1.5 — 1.75, or some 
such fractional matter), so to let you a little 
\nto the secrets of my pericranium, there is, you 
must know, a certain clean-limbed, handsome, 
bewitching young hussy of your acquaintance, 
to whom I have lately and privately given a ma- 
trimonial title to my corpus. 

" Bode a robe and wear it," 

Says the wise old Scots adage ! I hate to pre- 
sage ill-luck ; and as my girl has been doubly 
kinder to me than even the best of women 
usually are to their partners of our sex, in simi- 
lar ciicumstances, I reckon on twelve times a 
brace of children against I celebrate my twelfth 
wedding day : these twenty-four will give me 
twenty-four gossippings, twenty-four christen- 
ings, (I mean one equal to two), and I hope by 
the blessing of the God of my fathers, to make 



• Our Poet took this advice. See poetry for the 
wnole of that beautiful song— the Clicv^alier's (a«v<Dt. 



them .venty-four dutiful children to their p*. 
rents, twenty-four useful members of society, 
and twenty-four approven servants of their God ' 

" Light's heartsome," quo' the 

wife when she was stealing sheep. You se« 
what a lamp I have hung up to lighten your 
paths, when you are idle enough to exploie tne 
combinations and relations of my ideas. *Tis 
now as plain as a pike-staff, why a twenty-four 
gun battery was a metaphor I could readily 
employ. 

Now for business. — I intend to present Mrs. 
Burns with a printed shawl, an article of woicb 
1 dare say you have variety : 'tis my first pre- 
sent to her since I have irrevocably called ner 
mine, and 1 have a kind of whimsical wish to 
get her the said first present from an old and 
much valued friend of hers and mine, a trusty 
Trojan^ on whose friendship I count myself 
possessed of a life-rent lease. 



Look on this letter as a " beginning cf Bor- 
rows ;** I'll write you till your eyes ache with 
reading nonsense. 

Mrs. Burns ('tis only her private designa- 
tion), begs her best compliments to you. 



No. LXXVIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

MADAM, Mauchline, 2Sth April, l'"8!» 

Your powers of reprehension must be great 
indeed, as I assure you they made my heart 
ache with penitential pangs, even though I was 
really not guilty. As I commence farmer at 
Whitsunday, you will easily guess I must be 
pretty busy ; but that is not all. As I got the 
offer of the excise business without solicitation ; 
and as it costs me only six months' attendance 
for instructions, to entitle me to a commission ; 
which commission lies by me, and at any future 
period, on my simple petition, can be resumed ; 
1 thought five and thirty pounds a-year was no 
bad dernier resort for a poor poet, if fortune in 
her jade tricks should kick him down from the 
little eminence to which she has lately helped 
him up. 

For this reason, I am at present attending 
these instructions, to have them completed be- 
fore Whitsunday. Still, Madam, I prepared 
with the sincerest pleasure to meet you at the 
Mount, and came to my brother's on Saturday 
night, to set out on Sunday ; but for some 
nights preceding 1 had slept in an apartment, 
where the force of the winds and rain was only 
mitigated by being sifted through numberless 
apertures in the windows, walls, &c. In con- 
sequence 1 was on Sunday, Monday, and part 
of Tuesday unable to stir out of bed, with aH 
the miserable effects of a violent cold. 



S06 



BURNS' WORKS. 



You see, Midam, the trutn of the French 
maxim, Le vrai n'est pas tovjours le vrai-sem- 
blable ; your last was so full of expostulation, 
and was something so like the language of an 
oflFeuded friend, that I began to tremble for a 
correspondence, which I had with grateful plea- 
sure set down as om of the greatest enjoyments 
of my future life. 



Your books have delighted me ; Virgil, Dry- 
den, and TassOj were all equal strangers to me ; 
but of this more at large in my next 



No. LXXIX. 

FROM THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. 

DEAR SIR, JLinshart, 2Sth April, 1788. 

I RECEIVED your last, with the curious pre- 
sent you have favoured me with, and would 
have made proper acknowledgments before now, 
out that I have been necessarily engaged in 
matters of a different complexion. And now 
that I have got a little respite, I make use of it 
to thank you for this valuable instance of your 
good will, and to assure you that, with the sin- 
sere heart of a true Scotsman, I highly esteem 
both the gift and the giver ; as a small testi- 
mony of which I have herewith sent you for 
your amusement (and in a form which I hope 
you will excuse for saving postage) the two 
songs I wrote about to you already. Charming 
Nancy is the real production of genius in a 
ploughman of twenty years of age at the time 
of its appearing, with no more education than 
what he picked up at an old farmer-grandfa- 
ther's fireside, though now, by the strength of 
natural parts, he is clerk to a thriving bleach- 
field in the neighbourhood. And I doubt not 
but you will find in it a simplicity and delicacy 
with some turns of humour, that will please 
one of your taste ; at least it pleased me when 
I first saw it, if that can be any recommenda- 
tion to it. The other is entirely descriptive of 
my own sentiments, and yon may make use of 
one or both as you shall see good.* 



You will oblige me try presenting my respects 
to your host, Mr. Cruikshank, who has given 
such high approbation to my poor Latinity 
you may let him know, that as I have likewise 
been a dabbler in Latin poetry, I have two 
things that I would, if he desire* it, submit not 
to his judgment, but to his amusement : the 
one, a translation of Christ's Kirk o' the Green, 
printed at Aberdeen some years ago ; the other, 
Batrnchomyomachia Homeri Latinis versibus 
cum additamentis, given in lately to Chalmers, 
to print if he pleases. Mr. C. will know Sc" 
ria non semper delectant, non joca semper. 
Semper delectant seria mixta jocis. 

I have just room to repeat compliments and 
good wishes from. 

Sir, your humble servant, 

JOHN SKINNER. 



No. LXXX. 
TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART. 

SIR, Mauchline, 3d May, 1787. 

I ENCLOSE you one or two more of my baga 
telles. If the fervent wishes of honest grati- 
tude have any influence with that great, un- 
known Being, who frames the chain of causes 
and events ; prosperity and happiness will at- 
tend your visit to the Continent, and return you 
safe to your native shore. 

Wherever I am, allow me, Sir, to claim it aa 
ray privilege, to acquaint you with my progress 
in my trade of rhymes ; as I am sure I could 
say it with truth, that, next to my little fame, 
and the having it in my power to make life 



» CHARMING NAXCV. 

A SONG, BY A BUCHAN PLOUGHMAN. 

Tune — " Humours of Glen." 

Some sing of sweet Mally, some sing of fair Nelly, 

And some call sweet Susie the cause of their pain ; 
Some love to be jolly, some love mtlaneholy. 

And some love to sing of the Humours of Glen. 
But my only fancy, is my pretty Nanev, 

In venting my passion, I'll strive to be plain, 
V\l ask no more treasure, I'll seek no more pleasure. 

But thee, my dear Nancy, gin thou wert my aiu. 

Her beaf.;ty delights me, ner Kmdness invites me. 
Her pleasant behaviour is free from all stain : 



Therefore, my sweet jewel, O do not prove cruel. 
Consent, my dear Nancy, and come be my ain : 

H2r carriage is comely, her language is homely. 
Her dress is quite decent when ta'en in the main : 

She's blooming in feature, she's handsome in stature. 
My charming, dear Nancy, O wert thou my ain ! 

Like Phoebus adorning the fair ruddy morning. 

Her bright eyes are sparkling, her brows are serene. 
Her yellow locks shining, in beauty combining. 

My charming, sweet Nancy, wilt thou be my ain? 
The whole of her face is with maidenly graces 

Array'd like the gowans, that grow in yon glen. 
She's well shaped and slender, true hearted and tender, 

My charming, sweet Nancy, O wert thou my ain ! 

I'll seek through the nation for some habitation. 

To shelter my dear from the cold, snow, and rain. 
With songs to my deary, I'll keep her aye cheery, 

My charmini^, sweet Nancy, gin thou wert my ai'^, 
I'll work at my calling, to furnish thy dwelling, 

With ev'ry thing needful thy life to sustain ; 
Thou shalt not sit single, but by a clear ingle, 

I'll marrow thee, Nancy, when thou art my am. 

I'll make true affection the constant direction 

Of loving my Nancy while life doth remain : 
Tho' youth will be wasting, true love shall be lastmj 

My charming, sweet Nancy, gin thou wert my ain. 
But what if my Nancy should alter her fancy. 

To favour another 1 v forward and iiun, 
I will not comj)el her, but plainlv I'll tell her. 

Begone thou fals. Nancy, thou'se ne'er be nry am. 

The OM Man's Song, (see p. 135) 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



307 



more comfortable to those whom nature has 
made dear to me, I shall ever regard your coun- 
tenance, your patronage, your friendly good of- 
fices, as the most valued consequence of my late 
success in life. 



No. LXXXI. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

MADAM, Mauchline, ith May, 1788. 

Dryden's Virgil has delighted me. I do 
not know whether the critics will agree with 
me, but the Georgics are to me by far the best 
of Virgil. 1\ 's indeed a species of writing en- 
tirely new to me ; and has filled my head with 
a thousand fancies of emulation ; but, alas I 
when I read the Georgics, and then survey my 
own powers, 'tis like the idea of a Shetland 
poney, drawn up by the side of a thorough-bred 
hunter, to start for the plate. I own I am dis- 
appointed in the JSneid. Faultless correct- 
ness may please, and does highly please the let- 
tered critic ; but to that awful character I have 
not the most distant pretensions. I do not 
know whether I do not hazard my pretensions 
to be a critic of any kind, when I say that I 
think Virgil, in many instances, a servile copier 
of Homer. If I had the Odyssey by me, I 
could parallel many passages where Virgil has 
evidently copied, but by no means improved 
Homer. Nor can I think there is any thing of 
this owing to the translators ; for, from every 
thing I have seen of Dryden, I think him, in 
genius and fluency of language, Pope's master. 
I have not perused Tasso enough to form an 
opinion : in some future letter, you shall have 
my ideas of him ; though I am conscious my 
criticisms must be very inaccurate and imper- 
fect, as there I have ever felt and lamented my 
want of learning most. 



No. LXXXII. 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Mavchline,'May 26, 1788. 

MT dear friend, 

I AM two kind letters in your debt, but I 
have been from home, and horridly busy buying 
and preparing for my farming business ; over 
and above the plague of my Excise instructions, 
which this week will finish. 

As I flatter my wishes that I foresee many 
future years' correspondence between us, 'tis 
foolish to talk of excusing dull epistles : a dull 
letter may be a very kind one. I have the plea- 
Bure to tell you th't . I have been extremely for- 



tunate in all my buyings and bargainings hither- 
to ; Mrs. Burns not excepted ; which title 1 
now avow to the world. I am truly pleased 
with this last affair : it has indeed a-ld^d to ray 
anxieties for futurity, but it has g.^•eu ,i st ihility 
to my mind and resolutions, unkniiu ,, eiore 
and the poor girl has the most sacred euihii.-iasra 
of attachment to me, and has not a wish but to 
gratify my every idea of her deportment. 
I am interrupted. 

Farewell ! my aear Sir. 



Na LXXXIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

MADAM, 'ilth May, 1788. 

I HAVE been torturing my philosophy to no 
purpose, to account for that kind partiality of 

yours, which, unlike 

, has followed me in my 

return to the shade of life, with assiduous be- 
nevolence. Often did I regret in the fleeting 
hours of my late will-o'-wisp appearance, that 
" here I had no continuing city ;" and but for 
the consolation of a few solid guineas, could 
almost lament the time that a momentary ac- 
quaintance with wealth and splendour put me 
so much out of conceit with the sworn com- 
panions of my road through life, insignificance, 
and poverty. 



There are few circumstances relating to the 
unequal disti'ibution of the good things of this 
life, that give me more vexation (I mean in 
what I see around me) than the importance the 
opulent bestow on their trifling family affairs, 
compared with the very same things on the con- 
tracted scale of a cottage. Last afternoon I had 
the honour to spend an hour or two at a good 
woman's fireside, where the planks that com- 
posed the floor were decorated with a splendid 
carpet, and the gay table sparkled with silver 
and china. 'Tis now about term-day, and there 
has been a revolution among those creatures, 
who, though in appearance partakers, and 
equally noble partakers of the same nature with 
madame ; are from time to time, their nerves, 
their sinews, their health, strength, wisdom, 
experience, genius, time, nay, a good part of 
their very thoughts, sold for months and years, 



not only to the necessities, the conveniences, but 
the caprices of the important few. * We talked 
of the insignificant creatures ; nay, notwith- 
standing their general stupidity and rascality 
did some of the poor devils the honour to com- 



» Servants in Scotland are hired from term to jsxm^ 
e. from Whitsundav to Martinmas, he. 



308 



BURNS* WORKS. 



mend them. But light oe the turf upon ' is 
breast, who taught; " Reverence thyself." We 
looked down on the upohshed wretches, their 
impertinent wives and chiuterlj' brats, as the 
lordly bull does on the little dirty ant-hill, 
whose puny inhabitants he crushes in the care- 
lessness of his ramble, or tosses in air in the 
wantonness of his pride. 



No. LXXXIV. 
TO THE SAME. 

(at MR. DUNLOP's, HADDINGTON.) 

Ellisland, ISth June, 1788. 
" "Where'er T roam, whatever realms I see. 
My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee ; 
Still to my friend it turns with ceaseless pain, 
And drags at each remove a lengthen'd chain." 

GOLDSMITH. 

This is the second day, my honoured friend, 
that I have been on my farm. A solitary in- 
mate of an old, smoky spence ; far from every 
object I love, or by whom I am loved ; nor any 
acquaintance older than yesterday, except Jen- 
ny Geddes, the old mare I ride on ; while un- 
couth cares, and novel plans, hourly insult my 
awkward ignorance and bashful inexperience. 
There is a foggy atmosphere native to my soul 
m the hour of care, consequently the dreary ob- 
jects seem larger than the life. Extreme sensi- 
bility, irritated and prejudiced on the gloomy 
side by a series of misfortunes and disappoint- 
ments, at that period of my existence when the 
soul is laying in her cargo of ideas for the voyage 
of life, is, I believe, the principal cause of this 
unhappy frame of mind. 

" The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer ? 
Or what need he regard his sinffle woes ?" &c. 



Your surmise. Madam, is just ; I am 
a husband. 



ideed 



I found a once much-loved and still much- 
loved female, literally and truly cast out to the 
mercy of the naked elements, but as I enabled 
her to purchase a shelter ; and there is no 
sporting with a fellow-creature's happiness or 
misery. 

The most placid good-nature and sweetness 
e( disposition . a warm heart, gratefully devoted 
with all its powers to love me ; vigorous health 
and sprightly cheerfulness, set off to the best 
advantage, by a more than common handsome 
figure ; these, I think, in a woman, may make 



a good wife, though she shou'd never have read 
a page, but the Scriptures of the Old and New 
Testament, nor have danced in a brighter as- 
sembly than a penny pay-wedding. 



No. LXXXV. 
TO MR. P. HILL. 

MV DEAR HILL, 

I SHALL say nothing at all to your mad pre. 
seut — you have so long and often been of im- 
portant service to me, and I suppose you mean 
to go on conferring obligations until I shall not 
be able to lift up my face before you. In tha 
meantime, as Sir Roger de Coverley, because it 
happened to be a cold day in which he made 
his will, ordered his servants great coats for 
mourning, so, because I have been this week 
plagued with an indigestion, I have sent you by 
the carrier a fine old ewe-milk cheese. 

Indigestion is the devil : nay, 'tis the devil 
and all. It besets a man in every one of his 
senses. I lose my appetite at the sight of suc- 
cessful knavery ; and sicken to loathing at the 
noise and nonsense of self-important folly. 
When the hollow-hearted wretch takes me by 
the hand, the feeling spoils my dinner ; the 
proud man's wine so offends my palate, that it 
chokes me in the gullet ; and the pulvilis'd, 
feathered, pert coxcomb, is so disgustful in my 
nostril that my stomach turns. 

If ever you have any of these disagreeable 
sensations, let me prescribe for you patience and 
a bit of my cheese. I know that you are no 
niggard of your good things among your friends, 
arid some of them are in much need of a slice. 
There in my eye is oui friend Smellie, a man po- 
sitively of the first abilities and greatest strength 
of mind, as well as one of the best hearts and 
keenest wits that I have ever met with : when 
you see him, as, alas ! he too is smarting at th-* 
pinch of distressful circumstances, aggravatea 
i)y the sneer of contumelious greatness — a bit of 
my cheese alone will not cure him, but if you 
add a tankard of brown stout, and superadd a 
magnum of right Oporto, you will see his sor- 
rows vanish like the morning mist before the 
summer sun. 

C h, the eailiest friend, except my only 

brother, that I have on earth, and one of the 
worthiest fellows that ever any man called by 
the name of friend, if a luncheon of my cheese 
would help to rid him of some of his supera- 
bundant modesty, you would do well to give it 
him. 

David * with his Courant comes, tr 9, across 
my recollection, and I beg you will help hint 



* Printer of the Edinburgh Evening Couraat. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



30S 



largely from the said ewe-milk cheese, to ena- 
ble him to digest those bedaubing para- 
graphs with which he is eternally larding the 
lean characters of certain great men in a certain 
^reat town. I grant you the periods are very 
well turned : so, a fresh egg is a very good 
ihing ; but when thrown at a man in a piliory 
k does not at all improve his figure, not to men- 
tion the irreparable loss of the egg. 

My facetious friend, D r, I would wish 

also to be a partaker ; not to digest his spleen, 
for that he laughs oflF, but to digest his lust 
night's wine at the last field-day of the Croch- 
nllan corps. * 

Among our common friends I must not for- 
get one of the dearest of them, Cunningham, 
The brutality, insolence, and selfishness of a 
world unworthy of having such a fellow as he 
is in it, T know sticks in his stomach, and if 
you can help him to any thing that will make 
him a little easier on that score, it will be very 
obliging. 

As to honest J S e, he is such a 

contented happy man that I know not what can 
annoy him, except perhaps he may not have got 
the better of a parcel of modest anecdotes which 
a certain poet gave him one night at supper, 
the last time the said poet was in town. 

Though I have mentioned so many men of 
law, I shall have nothing to do with them pro- 
fessedly — the Faculty are beyond my prescrip- 
tion. As to their clients, that is another thing ; 
God knows they have much to digest ! 

The clergy I pass by ; their profundity of 
erudition, and their liberality of sentiment ; 
their total want of pride, and their detestation 
of hypocrisy, are so proverbially notorious as to 
place them far, far above either my praise or 
censure. 

I was going to mention a man of worth, 
whom I have the honour to call friend, the 
Laird of Craigdarroch ; but I have spoker^ to 
the landlord of the King's arms inn here, to 
have, at the next county-meeting, a large ewe- 
milk cheese on the table, for the benefit of the 
Dumfriesshire whigs, to enable them to digest 
the Duke of Queensberry's late pohtical con- 
duct. 

I have just this moment an opportunity of a 
private hand to Edinburgh, as perhaps you would 
not digest double postage. 



No. LXXXVI. 

TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Ellisland, June U, 1788. 
This is now the third day, my dearest Sir, 
chat I have sojourned in these regions ; and du- 
ring these three days you have occupied more 
of my thoughts than in three weeks preceding : 



* A club Q. choice spirits. 



In Ayrshire I have several variations of friend- 
ship's compass, here it points invariably to the 
pole. — My farm gives me a good many uncouth 
cares and anxieties, but I hate the language o» 
complaint. Job, or some one of bis friends, 
says well — " Why should a living man com- 
plain ?" 

I have lately been much mortified v/ith con- 
templating an unlucky imperfection in the very 
framing and construction of my soul ; namely, 
a blundering inaccuracy of her olfactory organs 
in hitting the scent of craft or design in my 
it'llow creatures. I do not mean any compli- 
ment to my ingenuousness, or to hint that the 
defect is in consequence of the unsuspicious sim- 
plicity of conscious truth and honour : I take it 
to be, in some way or other, an imperfection in 
the mental sight ; or, metaphor apart, some 
modificition of dulness. In two or three small 
instances Jately, I have been most shamefully 
out. 

I have all along, hitherto, in the warfare of 
life, been bred to arms among the light-horse — 
the piquet-guards of fancy ; a kind of hussars 
and highlanders of the brain ; but I am firmly 
resolved to sell out of these giddy battalions, who 
have no ideas of a battle but fighting the foe, oi 
of a siege but storming the town. Cost what it 
will, I am determined to buy in among the grave 
squadrons of heavy-armed thought, or the artil- 
lery corps of plodding contrivance. 

What books are you reading, or what is the 
subject of your thoughts, besides the great stu- 
dies of your profession ? You said something 
about religion in your last. I don't exactly re- 
member what it was, as the letter is in Ayr- 
shire ; but I thought it not only prettily said, 
but nobly thought. You will make a noble fel- 
low if once you were married. I make no re- 
servation of your being u;eZ/-married : You have 
so much sense, and knowledge of human nature, 
that though you may not realize perhaps the 
ideas of romance, yet you will never be ill-mar- 
ried. 

Were it not for the terrors of my ticklish si- 
tuation respecting provision for a family of chil- 
dren, I am decidedly of opinion that the step I 
have taken is vastly for my happiness. As it is, 
I look to the excise scheme as a certainty ol 
maintenance ; a maintenance, luxury to what 
either Mrs. Burns or I were born to. 

Adieu. 



No. LXXXVI I. 

TO MR. MORISON,* WRiaat, 
Mauchline. 

Ellisland, June 22, 1788. 

MV DEAR SIR, 

Necessity obliges voi to go into my new 



* This letter refers to rtiairy and otlier articles oi 
furniture which the Poet hart » rdered. 



310 



BURNS' WORKS. 



house, even before it bu plistered. I will inha- 
bit the one end until the otl-.er is finished. About 
three weeks more, I think, will at farthest, be 
my time, beyond which I cannot stay in this 
present house. If ever you wished to deserve 
the blessing of him that was ready to perish ; if 
ever you were in a situation that a little kind- 
ness would have rescued you from many evils ; 
if ever you hope to find rest in future states of 
untried being ; — get these matters of mine rea- 
dy. My servant will be out in the beginning of 
next week for the clock. My compliments to 
Mrs. Morison. • 

I am, after all my tribulation, 

Dear Sir, yours. 



No. LXXXVIII. 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

ElUsland, June 30, 1788. 

M.«^ DEAR SIR, 

I JUST now received your brief epistle ; and 
to take vengeance on your laziness, I have, you 
8ee, taken a long sheet of writing-paper, and 
have begun at the top of the page, intending to 
scribble on to the very last corner. 

I am vext at that affair of the . . ., but 
dare not enlarge on the subject until you send 
me your direction, as I suppose that will be al- 
tered on your late master and friend's death. I 
am concerned for the old fellow's exit, only as I 
fear it may be to your disadvantage in any re- 
spect — for an old man's dying, except he have 
been a very benevolent character, or in some 
particular situation of life, that the welfare of 
the poor or the helpless depended on him, I 
think it an event of the most trifling moment to 
the world. Man is naturally a kind benevolent 
animal, but he is dropt into such a needy situa- 
tion here in this vexatious world, and has such 
a whoreson, hungry, growling, multiplying pack 
of necessities, appetites, passions, and desires 
about him, ready to devour him for want of 
other food ; that in fact he must lay aside his 
cares for others, that he may look properly to 
himself. You have been imposed upon in pay- 
ing Mr. M for the profile of a Mr. H. I 

oid not mention it in my letter to you, nor did 

I ever give Mr. M any such order. I have 

no objection to lose the money, but I will not 
have any such profile in my possession. 

I desired the carrier to pay you, but as 1 1 
mentioned only 15s. to him, 1 will rather in- i 
close you a guinea-note. I have it not indeed 
to spare here, as I am only a sojourner in a j 
Btrange land in this place ; but in a day or two 
I return to Mauchline, and theie I have the 
bank notes through the house, like salt permits. 

There is a great degree of folly in talking un- 
necessarily of one's private affairs. I have just 
uow been interrupted by one of my new neigh- 



bours, who has made himself absolutely coi^ 
temptible in my eyes, by his silly, garrulous 
pruriency. I know it has been a fault of my 
own too ; but from this moment I abjure it as 1 
would the service of hell ! Your poets, spend- 
thrifts, and other fools of that kidney, pretend, 
forsooth, to crack their jokes on prudence, but 
'tis a squalid vagabond glorying in his rags. 
Still, imprudence respecting money matters, is 
much more pardonable than imprudence respect- 
ing character. I have no objection to prefer 
prodigality to avarice, in some few instances ; 
but I appeal to your observation, if you have 
not met, and often met, with the same little dis- 
ingenuousness, the same hollow-hearted insin- 
cerity, and disintegritive depravity of principle, 
in the hackney'd victims of profusion, as in the 
unfeeling children of parsimony. I have every 
possible reverence for the rauch-talked-of world 
beyond the grave, and I wish that which piety 
believes and virtue deserves, may be all matter 
of fact — But in things belonging to and termi- 
nating in this present scene of existence, man 
has serious and interesting business on band. 
Whether a man shall shake hands with wel- 
come in the distinguished elevation of respect, 
or shrink from contempt in the abject corner of 
insignificance ; whether he shall wanton under 
the tropic of plenty, at least enjoy himself in the 
comfortable latitudes of easy convenience, or 
starve in the arctic circle of dreary poverty ; 
whether he shall rise in the manly consciousness 
of a self-approving mind, or sink beneath a gall- 
ing load of regret and remorse — these are alter- 
natives of the last moment. 

You see how I preach. You used occasion- 
ally to sermonize too ; I wish you would in 
charity, favour me with a sheet fiill in your own 
way. I admire the close of a letter Lord Bo- 
lingbroke writes to Dean Swift, " Adieu, dear 
Swift ! with all thy faults I love thee entirely : 
make an effort to love me with all mine!* 
Humble servant, and all that trumpery, is now 
such a prostituted business) that honest friend- 
ship, in her sincere way, must have recourse to 
her primitive, simple, — farewell ! 



No. LXXXIX. 

TO MR. GEORGE LOCKHART, 
Merchant, Glasgow. 

MY DEAR SIR, MauchUne, July 18, 1788. 

I AM just going 'or Nithsdale, else I would 
certainly have transcribed some of my rhymin*" 
things for you. The Miss Bailies I have seen 
in Edinburgh. ♦' Fair and lovely are thy works, 
Lord God Almighty ! Who would not praise 
Thee for these Thy gifts in Thy goodness to the 
sons of men !" It needed not your fine taste to 
admire ^hi;m. I declare, one day I had tha 
honour of dining at Mr. Bailie's, I was almosi 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



31. 



in the predicament of the children of Israel, 
when they could not look on Moses's face for 
the glory that shone in it when he descended 
from Mount Sinai. 

I did once write a poetic address from the 
falls of Bruar to his Grace of Athole, when I 
was in the Highlands. When you return to 
Scotland let me know, and I will send such of 
my pieces as please myself best. 

I return to Mauchline in about ten days. 

My compliments to Mr. Purden. I am in 
truth, but at present in haste, 

Yours sincerely. 



No. XC. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, 2d Aug. 1788. 

HONOURED MADAM, 

Your kind letter welcomed me yesternight, 
to Ayrshire. I am indeed seriously angry with 
you at the quantum of your luckpenny ; but 
vexed and hurt as I was, I could not help laugh- 
ing very heartily at the noble lord's apology for 
the missed napkin. 

I would write you from Nithsdale, and give 
you my direction there, but I have scarce an 
opportunity of calling at a post-office once in 
a fortnight. I am six miles from Dumfries, 
am scarcely ever in it myself, and, as yet, have 
little acquaintance in the neighbourhood. Be- 
sides, I am now very busy on my farm, build- 
ing a dwelling-house ; as at present I am al- 
most an evangelical man in Nithsdale, for I have 
scarce " where to lay my head." 

There are some passages in your last that 
brought tears in my eyes. " The heart know- 
eth its own sorrows, and a stranger intermed- 
dleth not therewith." The repository of these 
*' sorrows of the heart," is a kind of sanctum 
sanctorum ; and 'tis only a chosen friend, and 
that too at particular, sacred times, who dares 
enter into them. 

" Heaven oft tears the bosom chords 
That nature finest strung." 

You will excuse this quotation for the sake 
of the author. Instead of entering on this sub- 
ject farther, I shall transcribe you a few lines I 
wrote in a hermitage belonging to a gentleman 
in my Nithsdale neighbourhood. They are al- 
most the only favours the muse has conferred 
9^1 me in that country. 

( The lines on Friar Carse hermitaye, he 
ginging 

Thou wh3m chance may hither lead. ) 

Since I am in the way of transcribing, the 



following were the production of yesterday as 
I jogged through the wild hills of New Cum- 
nock. I intended inserting them, or something 
like them, in an epistie I am going to write to 
the gentleman on whose friendship my excise 
hopes depend, Mr. Graham of Fintry ; one of 
the worthiest and most accomplished gentle- 
men, not only of this country, but I will dare 
to say it, of this age. The following are just 
the first crude thoughts " unhousei'd, unau- 
ointed, unanell'd." 



Pity the tuneful muses' helpless train ; 

Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main : 

The world were blest, did bless on them de- 
pend ; 

Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a 
friend !" 

The little fate bestows they share as soon ; 

Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdom's hard-wrung 
boon. 

Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son 

Who life and wisdom at one race begun ; 

Who feel by reason and who give by rule ; 

Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool ! 

Who make poor will do wait upon I shoidd ; 

We own they're prudent, but who feels they're 
good? 

Ye wise one's, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ; 
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy I 
But come 

Here the muse left me. I am astonished at 
what you tell me of Anthony's writing me. I 
never received it. Poor fellow ! you vex me 
much by telling me that he is unfortunate. I 
shall be in Ayrshire ten days from this date. 
I have just room for an old Roman farewell ! 



No. XCI. 
TO THE SAME. 

Mauchline, \Qth August, 1788 

MY MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, 

Yours of the 24th June is before me. I 
found it, as well as another valued friend — rD7 
wife, waiting to welcome me to Ayrshire : I 
met both with the sincerest pleasure. 

When I write you. Madam, I do not sit down 
to answer every paragraph of yours, by echoing 
every sentiment, like the faithful commons ol 
Great Britain in parliament assembled, answer- 
ing a speech from the best of kings ! I express 
myself in the fulness of my heart, and may per- 
haps be guilty of neglecting some of your kind 
inquiries ; but not from your very odd reason 
that I do not read your letters. All your epistles 
for several months have cost me nothing, ex • 



BURNS* WORKS. 



cept a swelling throb of gratitude, or a deep- 
felt Bentiinent of VKueration. 

Mrs. Buriis, Madam, is the identical womaa 



Wlien she first found herself " as women wish 
to be who love their lords ;" as I loved her 
nearly to distraction, we took steps for a pri- 
vate marriage. Her parents got the hint ; and 
not only forbade me her company and their 
house, but on my rumoured West Indian voy- 
age, got a warrant to put me in jail, till I should 
fia<l security in my about-to-be paternal rela- 
tion. You know my lucky reverse of fortune- 
On my eclatant return to Mauchline, I was 
made very welcome to visit my girl. The usual 
consequences began to betray her ; and as I was 
at that time laid up a cripple in Edinburgh, 
she was turned, literally turued out of doors, 
and I wrote to a friend to shelter her, till my 
return, when our marriage was declared. Her 
happiness or misery was in my hands, and who 
could trifle with such a deposit ? 



I can easily fancy a more agreeable compa- 
nion fur my journey of life, but, upon ray ho- 
nour, I have never seen the individual instance. 



Circumstanced as I am, I could never have 
got a female partner for life, who could have 
entered into my favourite studies, relished my 
favourite authors, &c. without probably entail- 
ing on me, at the same time, expensive living, 
fanta.stic caprice, perhaps apish affectation, with 
all the other blessed boarding-school acquire- 
ments, which (pardonnez moi, Madame) are 
sometimes to be found among females of the up- 
per ranks, but almost universally pervade the 
misses of the would-be-gentry. 



No. XCTI. 



TO THE SAAIE. 



Ellislandy \6th August, 1788. 
I AM in a fine disposition, my honoured friendj 
so send you an elegiac epistle ; and want only 
genius to make it quite Shenstonian. 

*• Why droops my heart with fancied woes for- 
lorn ? 
Why sinks my soul beneath each wintry sky ?* 



My increasing cares in this, as yet, stiange 
country — gloomy conjectures in the dark vista 
of futurity — consciousness of ray own inability 
for the struggle of the world — my broadened 
mark to misfortune in a wife and children : — 
I could indulge these reflections, till my humour 
should ferment into the most acrid chagrin, that 
would corrode the very thread of life. 

To counterwork these baneful feelings, I have 
sat down to write to you ; as I declare upon 
my soul I always find that the most sovereign 
balm for ray wounded spirit. 

I was yesterday at Mr. 's to dinner, fc- 

the first time. My reception was quite to iti 
mind ; from the lady of the house quite flatter- 
ing. She sometimes hits on a couplet or two, 
impromptu. She repeated one or two to the 
admiration of all present. My suff'rage as a 
professional man was expected ', I for once went 
agonizing over the belly of my conscience. Par- 
don me, ye, my adored household gods. Inde- 
pendence of Spirit, and Integrity of Soul ! In 
the course of conversation, Johnson s Musical 
Museum, a collectiun of Scottish songs with the 
music, was talked of. We got a song on the 
harpsichord, beginning. 



Rav 



around her blowing. 



I like your way in your church-yard lucu- 
brations. Thoughts that are the spontaneous 
result of accidental situations, either respecting 
health, place, or company, have often a strength, 
and always an origiualky, that would in vain 
be looked for in fancied circumstances and stu- 
died paragraphs. For me, I have often thought 
of keeping a letter, in progression, by me, to 
send you when the sheet was written out. Now 
I talk of sheets, I must tell you, my reason for 
writing to you on paper of this kind, is my pru- 
riency of writing to you at large. A page of 
post is on such a dissocial, narrow-minded scale, 
that I cannot abide it ; and double letters, at 
least in my miscellaneous reverie manner, are a 
Kioustrous tax in a cioi^e correi»pondeuce. 



The air was much admired : the lady of the 
j hdu^^e asked me whose were the words — " Mine, 
Madam — they are indeed my very best verses :" 
she took not the smallest notice of them ! The 
old Scottish proverb says, well, " king's caff is 
better than ither folks' corn." I was going to 
make a New Testament quotation about " cast- 
ing pearls;" but that would be too virulent, 
for thd lady is actually a woman of sense and 
taste. 



After all that has been said on the other side 
of the question, man is by no means a happy 
creature. I do not speak of the selected few, 
favoured by partial heaven, whose souls are tun- 
ed to gladness amid riches and honours, and pru- 
dence and wisdom — I speak of the neglected 
many, whose nerves, whose sinews, whose day« 
are sold to the minions of fortune. 

If I thought you had never seen it, I would 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



313 



transcribe fo • you a stanza of an old Scottish 
ballad, called The Life and Age of Man, be- 
ginning thus, 

•* 'Twas in the sixteenth hunder year 

Of God and fifty three, 
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, 

As writings testifie." 

1 had an old grand-uncle, with whom my 
mother lived a while in her girlish years ; the 
good old man, for such he was, was long blind 
ere he died, during which time, his highest en- 
joymt.'nt was to sit down and cry, while my mo- 
ther wouAi sing the simple old song of The life 
and Age of Man. 

It is this way of thinking — it is those melan- 
choly truths, that make religion so precious to 
the poor, miserable children of men — If it is a 
mere phantom, existing only in the heated ima- 
gination of enthusiasm, 

" What truth on earth so precious as the lie i" 

My idle reasonings sometimes make me a lit- 
tle sceptical, but the necessities of my heart al- 
ways give the cold philosophizmgs the lie. 
who looks for the heart weaned from earth ; 
the soul affianced to her God ; the correspon- 
ence fixed with heaven ; the pious supplica- 
tion and devout thanksgiving, constant as the 
vicissitudes of even and morn ; who thinks to 
meet with these in the court, the palace, in the 
glare of public life ? No : to find them in their 
precious importance and divine efficacy, we must 
search among the obscure recesses of disappoint- 
ment, affliction, poverty, and distress. 

I am sure, dear Madam, you are now more 
than pleased with the length of my letters. I 
return to Ayrshire, middle of next week ; and 
«t quickens my pace to think that there will be 
a letter from you waiting me there. I must be 
here again very soon for my harvest. 



No. XCIII. 



rO R. GRAHAM, OF FINTRY, Esq. 



When I had the honour of being introduced 
^o you at Athole-house, I did not think so soon 
of asking a favour of you. When Lear, in 
Shakspeare, asks old Kent, why he wished to 
be in his service, he answers, '* Because you 
have taat in your face which I could like to 
call master." For some such reason, Sir, do I 
now solicit your patronage. You know, I dare 
say, of an application I lately made to your 
Board to be admitted an officer of excise. I 
have, according to form, been examined by a 
supervisor, and to-day I gave in his certificate, 
with a request for an order for in&ti-uctions In 



this affair, if I succeed, I am afraid I shall buJ 
too much need a patronizing friend. Propriety 
of conduct as a man, and fidelity and attention 
as an officer, I dare engage for ; but with any 
thing like business, except manual labour, I am 
totally unacquainted. 



I had intended to have closed my late ap- 
pearance on the stage of life, in the character 
of a couHtry farmer ; but after discharging 
some filial and fraternal claims, I find I could 
only fight for existence in that miserable man- 
ner, which I have lived to see throw a venera- 
ble parent into the jaws of a jail ; whence death, 
the poor man's last and often best friend, rescu- 
ed him. 

I know. Sir, that to need your goodness is to 
have a claim on it ; may I therefore beg your 
patronage to forward me in this alfiir, till I be 
appointed to a division, where, by the help o{ 
rigid economy, I will try to support that inde- 
pendence so dear to my soul, but which has 
been too often so distant from my situation. 



When nature her great master-piece designed, 
And fram'd her last, best work, the human mind, 
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, 
She form'd of various parts the various man. 

Then first she calls the useful many forth ; 
Plain plodding industry, and sober worth ; 
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, 
And merchandise* whole genus take their birth : 
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds. 
And all mechanics' manyaproned kinds. 
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet. 
The lead and buoy are needful to the net : 
The caput mortuum of gross desires 
Makes a material, for mere knights and squires . 
The martial phosphorus is taught to flow. 
She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough. 
Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave de- 
signs, 
Law, physics, politics, and deep divines : 
Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles. 
The flashing elements of female souls. 

The order'd system fair before her stood, 
Nature well pleased pronounced it very good ; 
But ere she gave creating labour o'er, 
Half-jest, she tried one curious labour more. 
Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter; 
Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter ; 
With arch alacrity and conscious glee 
(Nature may have her whim as well as we. 
Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it) 
She forms the thing, and christens it — a poet. 
Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, 
When bless'd to-day unmindful of to-morrow. 
A being form'd t'amuse his graver friends, 
Admired and praised — and there the homa, 
ends : w 



S14 



BURNS' WORKS. 



A mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife, 
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; 
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, 
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live : 
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, 
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. 

But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, 
She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work. 
Pitying the propless climber of mankind. 
She cast about a standard tree to find ; 
And to support his helpless woodbine state, 
Attach'd him to the generous truly great. 
A title, and the only one T claim, 
To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Gra- 
ham. 

Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train, 
Weak, timid landmen on life's stormy main ! 
Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff, 
That never gives — tho' humbly takes enough ; 
The little fate allows, they share as soon, 
Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdom's hard-wrung 

boon. 
The world were bless'd, did bless on them de- 
pend. 
Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a 

friend !" 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son, 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun. 
Who feel by reason, and who give by rule, 
(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) 
Who make poor will do wait upon / should — ■ 
We own they're prudent, but who feels their 

good ? 
Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 
But come ye who the godlike pleasure know. 
Heaven's attribute distinguish'd — to bestow ! 
Whose arms of love would grasp the human race : 
Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace ; 
Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! 
Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. 
Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid. 
Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid ? 
I know my need, I know thy giving hand, 
I crave thy friendship at thy kind command ; 
But there are such who court the tuneful nine — 
Heavens, should the branded character be mine ! 
Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows, 
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 
Mark, how their lofty independent spirit. 
Soars on tlie spurning wing of injured merit ! 
Seek not the proofs in private life to find ; 
Pity, the best of words, should be but wind ! 
So, to heaven's gates the lark-shrill song ascends. 
But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. 
In all the clam'rous cry of starving want. 
They dun benevolence with shameless front ; 
Oblige them, patronize their tinsel lays. 
They persecute you all your future days ! 
Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, 
My horny fist a.ssume the plough again ; 
The pie-bali'd jacket let me patch once more ; 
On eighteen pence a- week I've lived before. 



Though, thanks to heaven, I dare even that Iwi 

shift, 
I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift : 
That placed by thee, upon the wish'd-for height 
Where, man and nature fairer in her sight, 
My muse may imp her wing for some sublimes 

flight.* 



No. XCIV. 
TO MR. BEUGO, Engraver, Edinburgh. 

MY DEAR SIR, EUisland, Sept. 9, 1788. 

There is not in Edinburgh above the num- 
ber of the graces whose letters would have given 
me so much pleasure as yours of the Sd instant, 
which only reached me yesternight. 

I am here on my farm, busy with my har- 
vest ; but for all that most pleasurable part of 
life called social communication, I am here 
at the very elbow of existence. The only things 
that are to be found in this country in any de- 
gree of perfection, are stupidity and canting. 
Prose, they only know in graces, prayers, &c. 
and the value of these they estimate as they do 
their plaiding webs — by the ell ! As for the 
muses, they have as much an idf^a of a rhino- 
ceros as of a poet. For my old caprlciou 
good-natured hussy of a muse — 

By banks of Nith I sat and wept 

When Coila I thought on, 
In midst thereof I hung my harp 

The willow trees upon. 

I am generally about half my time in Ayrshire 
with my " darling Jean," and then I, at lucid 
intervals, throw my horny fist across my be- 
cobwebbed lyre, much in the same manner as 
an old wife throws her hand across the spokes 
of her spinning wheel. 

I weir send you " The Fortunate Shepherd- 
ess" as soon as I return to Ayrshire, for therw 
I keep it with other precious treasure. I snnn 
send it by a careful hand, as I would not for 
any thing it should be mislaid or lost. I do 
not wish to serve you from any benevolence, or 
other grave Christian virtue ; 'tis purely a sel- 
fish gratification of my own feelings whenever 
I think of you. 



If your better functions would give you lei- 
sure to write me I should be extremely happy ; 
that is to say, if you neither keep nor look for a 



• This is our poet's first epistle to Graham of Fin, 
try. It is not equal to the second, but it contains toe 
much of the characteristic vigour of its author ,'o h* 
suppressed. A little more knowledge of natural histo- 
ry or of chemistry was wanted to enab'e him to p e 
cute the original conception correctly. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



31* 



regular correspondence. I hate the idea of being 
obliged to write a letter. I sometimes write a 
friend twice a week, at other times once a 
quarter. 

I am exceedingly pleased with your fancy in 
making the author you mention place a map of 
Iceland instead of his portrait before his works : 
*Twas a glorious idea. 

Could you conveniently do me one thing — 
Whenever you finish any head I could like to 
have a proof copy of it. I might tell you a 
long story about your fine genius ; but as what 
every body knows cannot have escaped you, I 
shall not say one syllable about it. 



No. XCV. 

TO MISS CHALMERS, Edinburgh. 

ERisland, near Dumfries, Sept. 16, 1788. 
Where are you ? and how are you ? and is 
Lady M'Kenzie recovering her health ? for I 
have had but one solitary letter from you. I 
will not think you have forgot me, Madam ; 
and for my part — 

" When thee Jerusalem I forget. 
Skill part from my right hand !" 

'^' My heart is not of that rock, nor my soul 
careless as that sea " I do not make my pro- 
gress among mankind as a bowl does among its 
fellows — rolling through the crowd without 
bearing away any mark or impression, except 
where they hit in hostile collision. 

I am here, driven in with my harvest-folks 
by bad weather ; and as you and your sister 
once did me the honour of interesting yourselves 
much a Vegard de moi, I sit down to beg the 
continuation of your goodness. — I can truly say 
that, all the exterior of life apart, I never saw 
two, whose esteem flattered the nobler feelings 
of ray soul — I will not say, more, but, so much 
as Lady M'Kenzie and Miss Chalmers. When I 
think of you — hearts the best, minds the noblest, 
of human kind — unfortunate, even in the shades 
of life — when I think I have met with you, and 
have lived more of real life with you in eight 
days, than I can do with almost any body I meet 
with in eight years — when I think on the im- 
probability of meeting you in this world again 
— I could sit down and cry like a child ! — If 
ever you honoured me with a place in your 
esteem, I trust I can now plead more desert. — 
I am secure against that crushing grip of iron 
poverty, whicli, alas ! is less or more fatal to the 
native worth and purity of, I fear, the noblest 
Bouls ; and a late, important step in my life has 
kindly taken me out of the way of those un- 
grateful iniquities, which, however overlooked 
in fashianable license, or varnished in fashion- 



able phrase, are indeed but lighter and deepei 
shades of villainy. 

Shortly after my last return to Ayrshire, I 
married " my Jean." This was not in conse- 
quence of the attachment of romance perhaps ; 
but I had a long and much-loved fellow-crea- 
ture's happiness or misery in my determination, 
and I durst not trifle with so important a depo- 
sit. Nor have I any cause to repent it. If 1 
have not got polite tattle, modish manners, and 
fashionable dress, I am not sickened and disgust- 
ed with the multiform curse of boarding-school 
afiFectation ; and I have got the handsomest fi- 
gure, the sweetest temper, the soundest consti- 
tution, and the kindest heart in the county. 
Mrs. Burns believes, as firmly as her creed, that 
I am le plus bel esprit, et le plus honnete homnie 
in the universe ; although she scarcely ever in 
her life, except the Scriptures of the Old and 
New Testament, and the Psalms of David in 
metre, spent five minutes together on either 
prose or verse. I must except also from this 
last, a certain late publication of Scots poems, 
which she has perused very devoutly ; and all 
the ballads in the country, as she has (O the 
partial lover ! you will cry) the finest " wood- 
note wild" I ever heard. — I am the more parti- 
cular in this lady's character, as I know she 
will henceforth have the honour of a share in 
your best wishes. She is still at Mauchline, as 
I am building my house ; for this hovel that I 
shelter in, while occasionally here, is pervious to 
every blast that blows, and every shower that 
falls ; and I am only preserved from being chill- 
ed to death, by being suffocated with smoke. I 
do not find my farm that pennyworth I was 
taught to e:?pect, but I believe, in time, it may 
be a saving bargain. You will be pleased to 
hear that I have laid aside idle eclat, and bind 
every day after my reapers. 

To save me from that horrid situation of at 
any time going down, in a losing bargain of a 
farm, to misery, I have taken my excise instruc- 
tions, and have my commission in my pocket 
for any emergency of fortune. If I could set all 
before your view, whatever disrespect you in 
common with the world, have for this business, 
I know you would approve of my idea. 

I will make no apology, dear Madam, for this 
egotistic detail : I know you and your sister 
will be interested in every circumstance of it. 
What signify the silly, idle gewgaws of wealth, 
or the ideal trumpery of greatness . W tien fel- 
low partakers of the same nature fear the same 
God, have the same benevolence of heart, the 
same nobleness of soul, the same detestation at 
every thing dishonest, and the same scorn •»'-• 
every thing unworthj' — if they are not in the 
dependance of absolute beggary, in the name of 
common sense are they not equals ? And if 
the bias, the instinctive bias of their souls run 
the same way, why may they not be friends ? 
When I may have an opportunity of sending 
you this. Heaven only knows. Shenstone says, 
" WTien one is confined idle within doors by bad 



S16 



BURNS' WORKS. 



weather, the best antidote against erinui is, to 
read the letters of, or write to one's friends ;" 
in that case then, if the weather continues thus, 
I may scrawl you half a quire. 

I very lately, to wit, since harvest began, 
wrote a poem, not in imitation, but in the man- 
ner of Pope's INIoral Epistles. It is only a short 
essay, just to try the strength of my Muse's pi- 
nion in that way. I will send you a copy of it, 
'wnen once I have heard from you. I have like- 
wise been laying the foundation of some pretty 
large poetic works : how the superstructure 
will come on I leave to that great maker and 
marrer of projects — time. Johnson's collection 
of Scots songs is going on in the third volume ; 
and of consequence finds me a consumpt for a 
great deal of idle metre. — One of the most to- 
lerable things I have done in that way, is, two 
stanzas that I made to an air, a musical gentle 
man * of my acquaintance composed for the an- 
niversary of his wedding-day, which happens on 
the seventh of November. Take it as follows : 

The day returns — my bosom burns, 

The blissful day we twa did meet, &c. — P. 80. 

I shall give over this letter for shame. If I 
should be seized with a scribbling fit, before this 
goes away, I shall make it another letter ; and 
then you may allow your patience a week's i-e- 
spite between the two. I have not room for 
more than the old, kind, hearty, farewell ! 

To make some amends, mes cheres Mesdames, 
tor dragging you on to this. second sheet ; and to 
relieve a little the tiresomeness of my unstudied 
and uncorrectible prose, I shall transcribe you 
some of my late poetic bagatelles ; though I have, 
these eight or ten months, done very little that 
way. One day, in an hermitage on the banks 
of Nith, belonging to a gentleman in my neigh- 
bourhood, who is so good as give me a key at 
pleasure, I wrote as follows ; supposing myself 
the sequestered, venerable inhabitant of the 
lonely mansion. 

i Lines written in Friar s Carse Hermitage.\ ) 



than once j but scarce.y ever with more plea- 
sure than when I received yours of the 1 2th in- 
stant. To make myself understood ; I had 
wrote to Mr. Graham, enclosing my poem ad- 
dressed to him, and the same post which fa- 
voured me with yours, brought me an answei 
from him. It was dated the very day he had 
received mine ; and I am quite at a loss to sa> 
whether it was most polite or kind. 

Your criticisms, my honoured benefactress, 
are truly the work of a friend. They are not 
the blasting depredations of a canker-toothed, 
caterpillar critic ; nor are they the fair state- 
ment of cold impartiality, balancing with un- 
feeling exactitude, the pro and con of an au- 
thor's merits ; they aie the judicious observa- 
tions of animated friendship, selecting the beau- 
ties of the piece. I have just arrived from 
Nithsdale, and will be here a fortnight. I was 
on horseback this morning by three o'clock ; 
for between ray wife and my farm is just forty- 
six miles. As I jogged on in the dark, I was 
taken with a poetic fit, as follows : 

" Mrs. F of C 's lamentation for tht 

death of her son ; an uncommonly promising 
youth of eighteen or nineteen years of age." 

( Here follow the verses, entitled, " A Mo- 
flier's Lament for the Loss of her Son") 

You will not send me your poetic rambles, 
b^t, you see, I am no nigi^ard of mine. I am 
sure your impromptu's give me double plea- 
sun ; what falls from your pen, can neither be 
unrn'-ertaining in itself, nor indifferent to me. 

The one fault you found, is just ; but I can- 
not please myself in an emendation. 

AiV hat a life of solicitude is the life of a pa- 
rent ! You interested me much in your young 
couple. 

I wouH net take my folio paper for this 
epistle, aid no\~' I repent it. I am so jaded 
with my dirty long journey that I was afraid to 
drawl into the essence of dulness with any thing 
larger than a quarto, and so I must leave out 
another rhyme of thir irorning's rxiitaiifacture. 

I will pay the sstpientipot<>ut (le^r^e raos* 
cheerfully, to hear from you ere 1 kavc AyJ 
shire. 



No. XCVI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP, OF DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, 21th Sept. 1788. 
I HAVE received twins, dear Madam, more 

* Captain Riddel of Glenriddel. 

■)• The poetic temperament is ever predisposed to 
lensations of the " horrible and awful." Burns, in 
returning from his visits at Glenriddel to hi ^^rm at 
EUisland, had to pass through a little wild wood in 
which stood the Hermitage. When the night was 
dark and dreary it was his custom generally to solicit 
an additional parting glass to fortify his spirits and 
keep up his courage. 1'his; was related by a lady, a 
near rel ition of Captain Riddel's, who had frequent 
opportunities of seeing this salutary practice exempli- 



No. XCVII. 



TO MR. P. HILL. 



Mauchline, \st October, 17S8. 
I HAVE been here in this country about three 
days, and all that time ray chief reading has 
been the " Address to Loch Lomond," you 
I were so obliging as to send to me. Were I im- 
pannelled one of the author's jury, to determine 
, his criminality respecting the sin of poesy, my 
I verdict should be " guilty ! A poet of Nature'* 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



317 



making!" It is an excellent method for im- 
provement, and what I believe every poet does, 
to place some favourite classic author, in his 
own walks of study and composition, before him, 
as a model. Though your author had not men- 
tioned the name, I could have, at half a glance, 
guessed his model to be Thomson. Will my 
brother poet forgive me, if I venture to hint, 
that his imitation of that immortal bard, is in 
two or three places rather more servile than 
uch a genius as his required. — e. g. 

To soothe the madding passions all to peace, 

ADDRESS. 

To soothe the throbbing passions into peace, 

THOMSON. 

I think the Address is, in simplicity, har- 
mony, and elegance of versification, fully equal 
to the Seasons. Like Thomson, too, he has 
looked into nature for himself : you meet with 
no copied description. One particular criti- 
cism I made at first reading : in no one instance 
has he said too much. He never flags in his 
progress, but like a true poet of Nature's mak- 
ing, kindles in his course. His beginning is 
simple, and modest, as if distrustful of the 
strength of his pinion ; only, I do not altoge- 
ther like 

" Truth, 

The soul of every song that's nobly great." 

Fiction is the soul of many a song that is no- 
bly great. Perhaps I am wrong : this may be 
but a prose criticism. Is not the phrase, in line 
7, page 6, " Great lake," too much vulgarized 
by every-day language, for so sublime a poem ? 

" Great mass of waters, theme for nobler song," 

is perhaps no emendation. His enumeration of 
a comparison with other lakes, is at once har- 
monious and poetic. Every reader's ideas must 
sweep the 

" Winding margin of an hundred miles." 

The perspective that follows mountains blue — 
the imprisoned billows beating in vain — the 
wooded isles — the digres>ion on the yew-tree — 
*' Ben Lomond's lofty cloud-enveloped head," 
&c. are beautiful. A thunder-storm is a subject 
which has been often tried, yet our poet, in his 
grand picture, has nterjected a circumstance, so 
far as I know, entirely original : 

" The gloom 
Deep seam'd witl. frequent streaks of moving 
fire." 

In his preface to the storm, " the glens how 
dark between," is noble highland landscape ! 
The ** rain plowing the red mould," too, is 
beautifully fancied. Ben Lomond's " lofty, 



pathless top,** is a good expression ; and the 
surrounding view from it is truly great ; the 

" Silver mist, 
Beneath the beaming sua," 

is well described ; and here, he has contrived to 
enliven his poem with a little of that passion 
which bids fair, I think, to usurp the modern 
muses altogether. I know not how far this epi- 
sode is a beauty upon the whole, but the swain's 
wish to carry *' some faint idea of the vision 
bright," to entertain her " partial listening ear," 
is a pretty thought. But, in ray opinion, the 
most beautiful passages in the whole poem, are 
the fowls crowding, in wintry frosts, to Loch 
Lomond's " hospitable flood ;" their wheeling 
round, their lighting, mixing, diving, &c. and 
the glorious desc ription of the sportsman. This 
last is equal to any thing in the Seasons. The 
idea of " the floating tribes distant seem, far 
glistering to the moon," provoking his eye as he 
is obliged to leave them, is a noble ray of poetic 
genius. " The howling winds," the " hideous 
roar" of " the white cascades," are all in the 
same style. 

I forget that while I am thus holding forth, 
with the heedless warmth of an enthusiast, I 
am perhaps tiring you with nonsense. I must, 
however, mention, that the last verse of the six- 
teenth page is one of the most elegant compli- 
ments I have ever seen. I must likewise notice 
that beautiful paragraph, beginning, " The 
gleaming lake," &c. I dare not go into the 
particular beauties of the two last paragraphs, 
but they are admirably fine, and truly Ossianic. 

I must beg your pardon for this lengthened 
scrawl. I had no idea of it when I began — I 
should like to know who the author is ; but, 
whoever he be, please present him with my 
grateful thanks for the entertainment he has af- 
forded me. * 

A friend of mine desired me to commission 
for him two books, Letters on the Religion es- 
sential to Man, a book you sent me before ; 
and, 27ie World Unmasked, or the Philosopher 
the greatest Cheat. Send me them by the first 
opportunity. The JBib/e you sent me is truly 
elegant ; I only wish it had been in two volumes. 



No. xcvin. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP, AT MOKEHAM 
MAINS. 

MADAM, Mauchline, \Sth Nov. 1788. 

I HAD the very great pleasure of dinini^ at 
Dunlop yesterday. Men are said to flatter wo- 



* The poem entitled An Address to Loch Lomond. 
is said to be written by a gentleman, now one of the 
masters of the High School at Edinburgh, luid the sam« 
who translated the beautiful story of the Puria. as pul' 
lished in the Bee of Dr. Anderson. 



318 



BURNS' WORKS. 



men because tliey ai»' weak; if it is so, poets 
must be weaker still; for Misses R. and K. 
and Miss G. M'K, with their flattering atten- 
tions, and artful compliments, absolutely turned 
my head. I own they did not lard me over as 

many a poet does his patron 

but they so intoxicated me with 

their sly insinuations and delicate inuendos of 
compliment, that if it had not been for a lucky 
recollection, how much additional weight and 
lustre your good opinion and friendship must 
give me in that circle, 1 had certainly looked 
upon myself as a person of no small consequence. 
I dare not say one word how much I was charm- 
ed with the major's friendly welcome, elegant 
manner, and acute remark, lest I should be 
thought to balance my orientalisms of applause 
over against the finest quey * in Ayrshire, which 
he made a present of to help and adorn my farm, 
stock. As it was on hallow-day, I am deter- 
mined annually as that day returns, to decorate 
her horns with an ode of gratitude to the family 
of Dunlop. 



So soon as I know of your arrival at Dunlop, 
I will take the first conveniency to dedicate a 
day, or perhaps two, to you and friendship, un- 
der the guarantee of the major's hospitality. 
There will soon be threescore and ten miles of 
permanent distance between us ; and now that 
your friendship and friendly correspondence is 
entwisted with the heart-strings of my enjoy- 
ment of life, I must indulge myself in a happy 
day of " the feast of reason and the flow of soul." 



No. XCIX. 



TO 



SIR, November 8, 1788. 

Notwithstanding the opprobrious epithets 
with which some of our philosophers and gloomy 
sectaries have branded our nature — the princi- 
ple of universal selfishness, the proneness to all 
evil, they have given us ; still, the detestation 
in which inhumanity to the distressed, or inso- 
lence to the fallen, are held by all mankind, 
shows that they are not natives of the human 
heart — Even the unhappy partner of our kind, 
who is undone — the bitter consequence of his 
follies or his crimes — who but sympathises with 
the miseries of this ruined profligate brother ? 
we forget the injuries, and feel for the man. 

I went last Wednesday to my parish church, 
most cordially to join in grateful acknowledge- 
ments to the Author of all Good, for the 
consequent blessings of the glorious revolution. 
To that auspicious event we owe no less than 
our liberti«s civil and religious ; to it we are 
likewise indebted for the presecJ Royal Family, 



\ Heifer. 



the ruling features of whose administration have 
ever been, mildness to the subject, and tenderness 
of his rights. 

Bred and educated in revolution principles, 
the principles of reason and common sense, it 
could not be any silly political prejudice which 
made my heart revolt at the harsh, abusive man- 
ner, in which the reverend gentleman mention- 
ed the House of Stuart, and which I am afraid, 
was too much the language of the day. We 
may rejoice sufficiently in our deliverance from 
past evils, without cruelly raking up the ashes 
of those, whose misfortune it was, perhaps as 
much as their crime, to be the authors of those 
evils ; and we may bliss God for all his good- 
ness to us as a nation, without, at the same time, 
cursing a few ruined, powerless exiles, who only 
harboured ideas, and made attempts, that most 
of us would have done, had we been in their si- 
tuation. 

" The bloody and tyrannical House of Stuai-t," 
may be said with propriety and justice when 
compared with the present Royal Family, and 
the sentiments of our days ; but is there no al- 
lowance to be made for the manners of the 
times 1 Were the royal contemporaries of the 
Stuarts more attentive to their subjects' rights ? 
Might not the epithets of " bloody and tyranni- 
cal" be, with at least equal justice, applied to 
the House of Tudor, of York, or any other of 
their predecessors ? 

The simple state of the case, Sir, seems tc oe 
this — At that period, the science of government, 
the knowledge of the true relation between king 
and subject, was, like other sciences and other 
knowledge, just in its infancy, emerging from 
dark ages of ignorance and barbarity. 

The Stuarts only contended for prerogatives 
which they knew their predecessors enjoyed, and 
which they saw their contemporaries enjoying ; 
but these prerogatives were inimical to the hap- 
piness of a nation, and the rights of subjects. 

In this contest between prince and people, 
the consequence of that light of science, which 
had lately daw^ned over Europe, the monarch 
of France, for example, was victorious over the 
struggling liberties of his people : with us, luckily 
the monarch failed, and his unwarrantable pre- 
tensions fell a sacrifice to our rights ai^d happi- 
ness. Whether it was owing to the wisdom 
of leading individuals, or to the justling of par- 
ties, I cannot pretend to determine ; but like- 
wise, happily for us, the kingly power was shift- 
ed into another branch of the family, who, as 
they owed the throne solely to the call of a frer 
people, could claim nothing inconsistent with 
the covenanted terms which placed them there. 

The Stuarts have been condemned and laugh- 
ed at for the folly and impracticability of their 
attempts in 1715 and 1745. That they failed, 
I bless God ; but cannot join in the ridicule a- 
gainst them. Who does not know that the abi- 
lities or defects of leaders and conrmanders are 
often hidden until put to the touchstone of exi- 
gency ; and that there is a caprice of fortune. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



319 



nn omnipotence in particular accidents and con- 
itinctures ot circumstancfis, which exalt us as he- 
roes, or brand us as madmen, just as they are 
for or against us ? 

Man, Mr. Publisher, is a strange, weak, in- 
tjOnsisteat being. Who would believe, Sir, that, 
in this our Augustan age of liberality and re- 
finement, while we seem so justly sensible and 
jealous of our rights and liberties, and aniitiated 
with such indignation against the very memory 
of those who would have subverted them — that 
a certain people, under our national protection, 
should complain not against our monarch and 
a few favoui-ite advisers, but against our whole 
LEGISLATIVE BODY, for similar oppression, and 
almost in the very same terms, as our forefathers 
did of the House of Stuart ! I will not, I can- 
not enter into the merits of the cause, but I dare 
say the American Congress, in 1776, will be al- 
lowed to be as able and as enlightened as the 
English convention was in 1688 ; and that their 
posterity will celebrate the centenary of their de- 
liverance from us, as duly and sincerely as we 
do ours from the oppressive measures of the 
wrong-headed House of Stuart. 

To conclude, Sir ; let every man who has a 
tear for the many miseries incident to humani- 
ty, feel for a family illustrious as any in Europe, 
and unfortunate beyond historic precedent ; and 
let every Briton (and particularly every Scots- 
man), who ever looked with reverential pity on 
the dotage of a parent, cast a veil over the fatal 
mistakes of the kings of his forefathers. * 



Have you uevei i fair goddess that leads you 
a wild-goose chase of amorous devotion ? Let 
me know a few of her qualities, such as, whe- 
ther she be either black, or fair ; plump, or 
thin ; short, or tall, &c. ; and choose your air, 
and I shall task my Muse to celebrate her. 



No. CI. 



No. C. 



TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON, Engraver, 
Edinburgh. 

Mauchline, Nov. 15, 1788. 

MY DEAR SIR, 

1 HAVE sent you two more songs. — If you 
have got any tunes, or any thing to correct, 
please send them by return of the carrier. 

I can easily see, my dear friend, that you will 
very prolxably have four volumes. Perhaps you 
may not find your account lucratively, in this 
business ; but you are a patriot for the music of 
your country ; and I am certain, posterity will 
look on themselves as highly indebted to your 
public spirit. Be not in a hurry ; let us go on 
correctly ; and your name shall be immortal. 

I am preparing a flaming preface for your 
third volume. I see every day, new musical 
publications advertised ; but what are they ? 
Gaudy, hunted butterflies of a day, and then va- 
nish for ever : but your work will outlive the 
momentary neglects of idle fashion, and defy the 
teeth of time. 



TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Mauchline, Nov. 16, 1788. 

REV. AND DEAR SIR, 

As I hear nothing of your motions but tha 
you are, or were, out of town, I do not know 
where this may find you, or whether it will find* 
you at all. I wrote you a long letter, dated 
from the land of matrimony, in June ; but 
either it had not found you, or, what I dread 
more, it found you or Mrs. Blacklock in too 
precarious a state of health and spirits, to take 
notice of an idle packet. 

I have done many little things for Johnson, 
since I had the pleasure of seeing you ; and I 
have finished one piece, in the way of Pope's 
Moral Epistles ; but from your silence, I have 
every thing to fear, so I have only sent you two 
melancholy things, which I trembl*^ lest they 
should too well suit the tone of your present 
feelings. 

In a fortnight I move, bag and baggage, to 
Nithsdale ; till then, my direction is at this 
place ; after that period, it will be at EUisIand, 
near Dumfries. It would extremely oblige me 
were it but half a line, to let me know how you 
are, and where you are. — Can I be indifferent 
to the fate of a man, to whom I owe so much ? 
A man whom I not only esteem but venerate. 

My warmest good wishes and most respectful 
compliments to Mrs. Blacklock, and Miss John- 
ston, if she is with you. 

I cannot conclude without telling you that I 
am more and more pleased with the step I took 
respecting " my Jean." — Two things, from my 
happy experience, I set down as apothegms in 
life. A wife's head is immaterial, compared 
vviih her heart — and — " Virtue's (for wisdom 
what poet pretends to it) — ways are ways oi 
pleasantness, and all her paths are peace." 
Adieu ! 



• This letter was sent tc the publisher of the Edh 
burgh Evening Courant,\ 



(Here follow " The mother s lament for the 
OSS of her son," p. 200, and the (song begin- 
ning, " The lazy mist hangs from the brow of 
the hill, ' ^. 234.) 



320 



3URNS' WORKS. 



No. CII 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

ElHsland, \7th December, 1788. 

MY BEAR HONOURED FRIEND, 

Yours, dated Edinburgh, which I have just 
read, makes me very unhappy. Almost " blind 
and wholly deaf," are melancholy news of hu- 
man nature ; but when told of a much loved 
and honoured friend, they carry misery in the 
sound. Goodness on your part, and gratitude 
on mine, began a tie, which has gradually and 
strongly eotwisted itself among the dearest 
chords of my bosom ; and I tremble at the 
omens of your late and present ailing habits 
and shattered health. You miscalculate mat- 
ters widely, when you forbid my waiting on 
you, lest it should hurt my worldly concerns. 
My small scale of farming is exceedingly more 
simple and easy than what you have lately 
seen at Moreham IVIains. But be that as it 
may, the heart of the man, and the fancy of 
the poet, are the two grand considerations for 
which I live : if miry ridges, and dirty dung- 
hills are to engross the best part of the func- 
tions of my soul immortal, I had better been a 
rook or a magpie at once, and then I should 
not have been jjlagued with any ideas superior 
to breaking of clods, and picking up grubs ; 
not to mention barn-door cocks or mallards, 
creatures with which I could almost exchange 

lives at any time If you continue so deaf, I 

im afraid a visit will be no great pleasure to 
sither of us ; but if I hear you are got so well* 
again as to be able to relish conversation, look 
you to it, J^Iadam, for I will make my threaten- 
uags good : I am to be at the new-year-day fair 
of Ayr, and by all that Is sacred in the world, 
friend, I will come and see you. 



hobby horse, I canaot help inserting twj sth»« 
old stanzas, which please me mightily. 

Go fetch to me a pint o wine, 
An' fill It in a silver tassie. 

{See Songs p, 212.) 



No. cm. 

TO A YOUNG LADY, 

WHO HAD HEARD HE HAD BEEN MAKINO i. 
BALLAD ON HER, ENCLOSING THAT BALLAD. 



Your meeting, which you so well describe, 
with your old schoolfellow and friend, was tru- 
ly interesting. Out upon the ways of the world .' 
—They spoil these " social offsprings of the 
heart." Two veterans of the " men of the 
world" would have met, with little more heart- 
workings than two old hacks worn out on the 
road. Apropos, is not the Scotch phrase, 
" Auld lang syne," exceedingly expressive. 
There is an old song and tune which has often 
thrilled through my soul. You know I am an 
enthusiast in old Scotch songs. I shall give you 
the verses on the other sheet, as I suppose Mr. 
Ker will save you the postage. * 

Light be the turf on the breast of the Hea- 
ven-inspired poet who composed this glorious 
fragment ! There is more of the fire of native 
genius in it, than in half a dozen of modern 
English Bucchanalianj,. Now I am on my 

• Here follows the song of 4vid lane syne. 



MADAM, December, 1788. 

UNDERSTANn my very worthy neighbour, 
Mr. Riddel, has informed you that'l have made 
you the subject of some verses. There is some- 
thing so provoking in the idea of being the bur- 
den of a ballad, that I do not think Job or 
Moses, though such patterns of patience and 
meekness, could have resisted the curiosity to 
know what that ballad was: so my worthy 
friend has done me a mischief, which I dare say 
he never intended ; and reduced me to the un- 
fortunate alternative of leaving your curiosity 
ungratified, or else disgusting you with foolisn 
verses, the unfinished production of a random 
moment, and never meant to have met your ear 
I have heard or read somewhere of a gentleman, 
who had some genius, much eccentricity, and 
very considerable dexterity with his pencil. In 
the accidental groups of life into which one is 
thrown, wherever this gentleman met with a 
character in a more than ordinary degree con- 
genial to his heart, he used to steal a sketch ol 
the face, me. eiy, he said, as a nota bene to point 
out the agreeable recollection to his memory. 
What this gentleman's pencil was to him, is ray 
muse to me ; and the verses I do myself the 
honour to send you are a Twewew^o exactly of the 
saiPe kind that he indulged in. 

It may be liiore owing to the fastidiousness 
of my caprice, than the delicacy of my taste, 
that I am so often tired, disgusted, and hurt 
with the insipidity, affectation, and pride of 
mankind, that when I meet with a person 
" after my own heart," I positively feel what 
an orthodox protestant would call a species of 
idolatry which acts on my fancy like inspira- 
tion, and I can no more desist rhyming on the 
impulse, than an iEolian harp can refuse its 
tones to the streaming air. A distich or two 
would be the consequence, though the obiect 
which hit my fancy were grey-bearded age; 
but where my theme is youth and beautv, a 
young lady whose personal charms, wit, 'and 
sentiment, are equally striking and unaffected, 
by heavens ! though I had lived threescore year? 
a married man, and threescore years before I 
was a married man, my imagination would hal- 
low the very idea; and I am truly sorry that 
the enclosed stanzas have done such poor iustice 
, to such a subject. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



321 



No. CIV. 

TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. 

BIR, December^ 1788. 

Ma. M'Kenzie, in Mauchline, my very warm 
and worthy friend, has informed me how much 
you are pleased to interest yourself in my fate 
as a man, and, (wha* to me is incomjiarably 
dearer) my fame as a poet. I have, Sir, in one 
or two instances, been patronized by those of 
your character in life, when I was introduced 

to their notice by friends to them, 

and honoured acquaintances to me: but you 
are the first gentleman in the country whose 
benevolence and goodness of heart has interest- 
ed him for me, unsolicited and unknown. I 
am not master enough of the etiquette of these 
matters to know, nor did I stay to inquire, 
whether formal duty bade, or cold propriety 
disallowed, my thanking you in this manner, as 
I am convinced, from the light in which you 
kindly view me, that you will do me the justict 
to believe this letter is not the manoeuvre of a 
needy, sharping author, fastening on those in 
upper life, who honour him with a little notice 
of him or his works. Indeed the situation oi 
poets is generally such, to a proverb, as may, 
in some measure, palliate that prostitution of 
heart and talents they have at times been guilty 
of. 1 do not think prodigality is, by an means, 
a necessary concomitant of a poetic turn, but 
believe a careless, indolent inattention to econo- 
my, is almost inseparable from it ; then there 
must be in the heart of every bard of Nature's 
making, a certain modest sensibility, mixed 
with *a kind of pride, that will ever keep him 
out of the way of those windfalls of fortune, 
which frequently light on hardy impudence 
and foot-licking servility. It is not easy to 
imagine a more helpless state than his, whose 
poetic fancy unfits him for the world, and whose 
character as a scholar, gives him some preten- 
sions to the politesse of life — yet is as poor as I 
am. 

For my part, I thank Heaven, my star has 
been kinder ; learning never elevated my ideas 
above the peasant's shed, and I have an inde- 
pendent fortune at the plough-tail. 

I was surprised to hear that any one, who 
pretended in the least to the manners of the 
gentleman, should be so foolish, or worse, as to 
fttoop to traduce the morals of such a one as I 
am, and so inhumanly cruel, too, as to meddle 
with that late most unfortunate, unhappy part 
of my story. With a tear of gratitude, I thank 
you. Sir, for the warmth with which you inter- 
posed in behalf of my conduct. I am, I ac- 
knowledge, too frequently the sport of whim, 
caprice, and passion — but reverence to God, 
and integrity to my fellow- creatures, I hope I 
shall ever preserve. I have no return, Sir, to 
make you for your goodness but one — a return 
which, I am persuaded, will not be unaccept- 
-iiilri-— '■he honest, ^arra wish«s o'' a grateful 



heart for your hap])iiicss, and ("very one of that 
lovely flock, who stand to you in a filial rela- 
tion. If ever calumny aim the poisoned shafi 
at them, may friendship be by ta ward the 
blow ! 



LETTERS, 1789. 

No. CV. 
FROM MR. G. BURNS. 

DEAR BROTHEH, Mossgiel, \st Jan. 1789. 

I HAVE just finished my new-year's-day 
breakfast in the usual forvn, which naturally 
makes me call to mind the ilays of former years, 
and the society in which we used to begin 
them ; and when I look at our family vicissi- 
tudes, " through the dark postern of time long 
elapsed," I cannot help remarking to you, my 
dear brother, how good the God of Seasons 
is to us ; and that however some clouds may 
seem to lower over the portion of time before 
us, we have great reason to hope that all will 
turn out well. 

Your mother and sisters, with Robert the 
second, join me in the compliments of the sea- 
son to you and JNIrs. Burns, and beg you will 
remember us in the same manner to William, 
the first time you see him. 

I am, dear brother, yours, 

GILBERT BURNS. 



No. CVI. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, Neic-Year-Day Morning, 1789. 

This, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes, 
and would to God that I came under the apos- 
tle James's description ! — the prayer of a righ- 
teous man aoaileth much. In that case, J\Ia- 
dam, you should welcome in a year full of bles- 
sings ; every thing that obstructs or disturbs 
tranquillity and self-enjoyment, should be re- 
moved, and every pleasure that frail humanity 
can taste, should be yours. I own myself so 
little a Presbyterian, that I approve of set times 
and seasons of more than ordinary acts of devo- 
tion, for breaking in on that habituated routine 
of life and thought, which is so apt to reduce 
our existence to a kind of instinct, or even 
sometimes, and with some minds, to a state very 
little superior to mere machinery. 

This day ; the first Sunday ot May ; a breezy, 
blue-skyed noon some time about the beginning, 
and a hoary morning and calm sunny day about 
the end, of autumn ; these, time out of miud^ 
have been with me a kind of holiday. 



S22 



BURNS' WORKS. 



i believe T owe this to that glorious paper in 
the Spectator, " The Vision of Mirza ;" a 
piece that struck my young fancy before I was 
capable of fixing an idea to a word of three syl- 
lables : " On the 5th day of the moon, which, 
according to the custom of my forefathers, I al- 
ways keep holy, after having washed myself, 
and offered up my morning devotions, I ascend- 
ed the high hill of Bagdat, in order to pass the 
rest of the day in meditation and prayer." 

We know nothing, or next to nothing, of 
the substance or structure of our souls, so can- 
not account for those seeming caprices, in them, 
that one should be particularly pleased with this 
thing, or struck with that, which, on minds of 
a different cast, makes no extraordinary im- 
pression. I have some favourite flowers in 
spring, among which are the mountain daisy, 
the hare-bell, the fox- glove, the wild-brier rose, 
the budding birch, and the hoary hawthorn, 
that I view and hang over with particular de- 
light. I never hear the loud, solitary whistle 
of the curlew, in a summer noon, or the wild 
mixing cadence of a troop of grey plover, in an 
autumnal morning, without feeling an elevation 
of soul like the enthusiasm of devotion or poe- 
try. Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this 
be owing .? Are we a piece of machinery, which, 
like the ^olian harp, passive, takes the impres- 
sion of the passing accident ? Or do these work- 
ings argue something within us above the trod- 
den clod ? I own myself partial to such proofs 
of those awful and important realities — a God 
that made all things — man's immaterial and im- 
mortal nature — and a world of weal or woe be- 
yond death and the grave. 



SIR, 



No. evil. 
FROM THE REV. P. CARFRAE. 

2d January, 1789. 
If you have lately seen Mrs. Dunlop, of 
Dunlop, you have certainly heard of the author 
of the verses which accompany this letter. He 
was a man highly respectable for every accom- 
plishment and virtue which adorns the charac- 
ter of a man or a Christian. To a great de- 
gree of literature, of taste, and poetic genius, 
was added an invincible modesty of temper, 
which prevented, in a great degree, his figuring 
in life, and confined the perfect knowledge of 
his character and talents to the small circle of 
his chosen friends. He was untimely taken 
from us, a few weeks ago, by an inflammatory 
fever, in the prime of life — beloved by all, who 
enjoyed his acquaintance, and lamented by all, 
who have any regard for virtue or genms. There 
IB a woe pronounced in Scripture against the 
person whom all men speak well of ; if ever 



that woe fell upon the head of mortaT man, i^ 
fell upon him. He has left behind him a con- 
siderable number of compositions, chiefly poeti- 
cal ; sufiicient, I imagine, to make a large oc- 
tavo volume. In particular, two complete and 
regular tragedies, a farce of three acts, and some 
smaller poems on different subjects. It falls to 
my share, who have lived in the most intimate 
and uninterrupted friendship with him from my 
youth upwards, to tiansmit to you the verses he 
wrote on the publication of your incomparable 
poems. It is probable they were his last, as 
they were found in his scrutoire, folded up with 
the form of a letter addressed to you, and I im- 
agine, were only prevented from being sent by 
himself, by that melancholy dispensation which 
we still bemoan. The verses themselves I will 
not pretend to criticise when writing to a gen- 
tleman whom I consider as entirely qualified to 
judge of their merit. They are the only verses 
he seems to have attempted in the Scottish 
style ; and I hesitate not to say, in general, that 
they will bring no dishonour on the Scottish 
muse , — and allow me to add, that if it is your 
opinion they are not unworthy of the author, 
and will be no discredit to you, it is the incli- 
nation of Mr. Mylne's friends that they should 
be immediately published in some periodical 
work, to give the world a specimen of what 
may be expected from his performances in the 
poetic line, which, perhaps, will be afterwards 
published for the advantage of his family. 



I must beg the favour of a letter from you, 
acknowledging the receipt of this, and to be 
allowed to subscribe myself with great regard, 
Sir, your most obedient servant, 

P. C . 



No. CVIII. 



TO DR. MOORE. 



Ellisland, near Dumfries, 4,th Jan. 1789. 

SIR, 

As often as I think of writing to you, whicc 
has been three or four times every week these 
six months, it gives me something so like the 
idea of an ordinary-sized statue offering at a con- 
versation with the Rhodian Colossus, that my 
mind misgives me, and the affair always miscar- 
ries somewhere between purpose and resolve. 1 
have, at last, got some business with you, ana 
business-letters are written by the style-book. — 
I say my business is with you, Sir, for you never 
had any with me, except the business that bene- 
volence has in the mansion of poverty. 

The character and employment of a poet 
were fcrmerly my pleasure, but are now m? 
pride. know that a vejy great deal of my 



I 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



3^S 



late eclat was owing to the singularity of my 
situation, and the honest prejudice of Scotsmen ; 
but stil], as 1 said in the preface to my first edi- 
tion, I do look upon myself as having some pre- 
tensions from Nature to the poetic character. T 
nave not a doubt but the knack, the aptitude, to 
.earn the Muses* trade, is a gift bestowed by 
Him " who forms the secret bias of the soul ;" 
• -but as I firmly believe, that excellence in the 
profession is the fruit of industry, labour, atten- 
tion, and pains. At least I am resolved to try 
my doctrine by the test of experience. Another 
appe«ance from the press I put off to a very 
distant day, a day that may never arrive — but 
poesy I am determined to prosecute with all my 
vigour. Nature has given very few, if any, of 
the profession, the talents of shining in every 
species of composition. I shall try (for until 
trial it is impossible to know), whether she has 
qualified me to shine in any one. The worst of 
it is, by the time one has finished a piece, it has 
been so often viewed and reviewed before the 
mental eye, that one loses, in a g<jod measure, 
the powers of critical discrimination. Here the 
best criterion I know is a friend — not only of 
abilities to judge, but with good nature enough, 
like a prudent teacher with a young learner, to 
praise perhaps a little more than is exactly just, 
lest the thin-skinned animal fall into that most 
deplorable of all poetic diseases — heart-breaking 
despondency of himself. Dare I, Sir, already 
immensely indebted to your goodness, ask the 
additional obligation of your being that friend to I 
me? I enclose you an essay of mine, in a walk 
of poesy to me entirely new ; I mean the epistle 
addressed to R. G., Esq., or Robert Graham, of 
Fintry, Esq., a gentleman of uncommon worth, 
to whom I lie under very great obligations. The 
story of the poem, like most of my poems, is 
connected with my own story, and to give you 
the one, I must give you something of the other. 
I cannot boast of 



of so much. I give myself no airs on this, for 
it was mere selfishness on my part ; I was con- 
scious that the wrong scale of the balance was 
pretty heavily charged, and I thought that 
throwing a little filial piety, and fraternal affec- 
tion, into the scale in my favour, might help tc 
smooth matters at the grand reckoning. There 
is still one thing would make my circumstances 
quite easy ; I have an excise officer's commis- 
sion, and I live in the midst ot a country divi, 
sion My request to Mr. Graham, who is one 
of the commissioners of excise, was, if in his 
power, to procure me that division. If I were 
very sanguine, I might hope that some of ray 
great patrons might procure me a treasury war- 
rant for supervisor, surveyor -general, &c. 



Thus secure of a livelihood, " to thee, sweet 
poetry, delightful maid," I would consecraie mv 
future days. 



No. CIX. 



I believe I shall, in whole, L. 1 00 copy-right 
included, clear about L.400 some little odds ; 
and even part of this depends upon what the 
gentleman has yet to settle with me. I give 
you this information, because you did me the 
honour to interest yourself much in my welfare. 



TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Ellhland, Jan. 6, 1789. 

Many happy returns of the season to you, 
my dear Sir . INIay you be comparatively happy 
up to your comparative worth among the sons 
of men ; which wish would, I am sure, make 
you one of the most blest of the human race. 

I do not know if passing a " Writer to the 
Signet" be a trial of scientific merit, or a mere 
business of friends and interest. However it be, 
let me quote you my two favourite passages, 
which though I have repeated them ten thou- 
sand times, still they rouse my manhood and 
steel my resolution like inspiration. 



On Reason build resolve. 



To give the rest of my story in brief, I have 
married •* my Jean," and taken a farm ; with 
the first step I hav^ every day more and more 
reason to be satisfied ; with the last, it is rather 
the reverse. I have a younger brother, who 
supports my aged mother ; another still younger 
brother, and three sisters, in a farm. On my 
last return from Edinburgh, it cost me about 
L.180 to save them from ruin. Not that I 
nave lost so much — I only interposed between 
mv brother and his impending fate by the loan 



That column of true majesty in man. 

Young. 

Hear, Alfred, hero of the state, 
Thy genius heaven's high will declare ; 
The trium.ph of the truly great 
Is never, never to despair ! 
s never to despair ! 

Masque of Alfred. 

* grant you enter the lists of life, to struggle 
for bread, business, notice, and distinction, in 

common with hundreds But who are they .? 

Men, like yourself, and of that aggregate body, 
your compeers, seven-tenths of them come short 
of your advantages natural and accidental ; Avhile 
two of those that remain either neglect their 
parts, as flowers blooming in a desert, or mis- 
spend their strength, like a bull goring a bram^ 
ble bush. 



324) 



BURNS* WORKS. 



But to change tlie theme : I am still catering 
for Johnson's piil»lication ; and amon"; others, 
1 have brushed up the following old favourite 
song a little, with a view to your worship. I 
have only altered a word ..ere and there ; but if 
you like the humour of i ;, we shall think of a 
stanza or two to add to it. 



No. ex. 
TO BISHOP GEDDES. 

Ellisland, near Dumfries, 3d Feb, 1789. 

ITENEKABLE FATHER, 

As I am conscious that wherever I am you do 
me the hoTiour to interest yourself in my wel- 
fare, it gives nie pleasure to inform you, that I 
am here at last, stationary in the serious busi- 
ness of life, and have now not only the retired 
leisure, but the hearty inclination, to attend to 
those great and important questions — what I 
am? where I am ? and for what I am destined ? 

In that first concern, the conduct of the man, 
there was ever but one side on which I was 
habitually blameable, and there I have secured 
myself in the way pointed out by Nature and 
Nature's God. I was sensible that, to so help- 
less a creature as a poor jjoet, a wife and family 
were incumbrances, which a species of prudence 
would bid him shun ; but when the alternative 
was, being at eternal warfare with myself, on 
account of habitual follies, to give them no worse 
name, which no general example, no licentious 
wit, no sophistical infidelity would, to me, ever 
justify, I must have been a fool to have hesitat- 
ed, and a madman to have made another choice. 



In the affair of a livelihood, I think myself 
tolerably secure ; I have good hopes of my 
farm ; but should they fail, I have an excise 
commission, which on my simple petition, will, 
at any time, procure me bread. There is a cer- 
tain stigma affixed to the character of an excise 
officer, but I do not intena to oorrow nonour 
from any profession ; and though the salary be 
comparatively small, it is great to any thing 
that the first twenty-five years of my life taught 
me to expect. 



Thus, with a rational aim and method in life, 
you may easily guess, my reverend and much- 
honoured friend, that my characteristical trade 
is not forgotten, I am, if possible, more than 
ever an enthusiast to the muses. I am deter- 



corrections of years (.nn enable me to prodoce 
something worth preserving. 

You will see in your book, which I beg youf 
pardon for detaining so long, that I have been 
tuning my lyre on the banks of Nith. Some 
larger poetic plans that are floating in my ima- 
gination, or partly put in execution, I shall im- 
part to you when I have the pleasure of meet- 
ing with you, which, if you are then in Edin- 
burg. , I shall have »bout the beginning of 
March. 

That acquaintance, worthy Sir, with which 
you were pleased to honour me, you must still 
allow me to challenge ; for with whatever un- 
concern I give up my transient connection with 
the merely great, I cannot lose the patronizing 
notice of the learned and the good, without the 
bitterest regret. 



No. CXI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, Uh March, 1789. 
Here am I, my honoured friend, returned safe 
from the capital. To a man, who has a home, 
however humble or remote — if that home is like 
mine, the scene of domestic comfort — the bustle 
of Edinburgh will soon be a business of sicken- 
ing disgust. 

" Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate you !" 



I must skulk into a corner, lest the 
equipage of some gaping blockhead 



Whei 
rattling 

should mangle me in the mire, I am tempted 
to exclaim — " what merits has he had, or what 
demerit have I had, in some state of pre-existence, 
that he is ushered into this state of being with 
the sceptre of rule, and the key of riches, in his 
puny fist, and I am kicked into the world, the 
sport of folly, or the victim of pride?" I have 
read somewhere of a monarch (in Spain I think 
it was), who was so out of humour with the 
Ptolemean system of astronomy, that he said, 
had he been of the Creator's council, he could 
have saved him a great deal of labour and ab- 
surdity. I will not defend this blasp'nenious 
speech ; but often, as I have glided with humble 
tealth through the pomp of Prince's Street, it 
has suggested itself to me, as an improvement 
on the present human figure, that a man, in 
proportion to his own conceit of his consequence 
in the world, could have pushed out the longi- 
tude of his common size, as a snail pushes out 
his horns, or as we draw out a perspective. 
This trifling alteration, : et to mention the pro- 
digious saving it would be in the tear and vi'ear 
of the neck and limb-sinews of many of his Ma- 
jesty's liege subjects in the way of tossing the 



mined to study man and nature, and in that ' head and tiptoe strutting, would evidently turn 
view incessantly ; and to try if the ripening and out a vast advantage, in enabling us at once tt 



CORRESPONDEJN CE. 



adjust the ceremonials in making a bow, or 
making way to a great man, and that too within 
a second of the precise sjjherical angle of reve- 
rence, or an inch of the particular point of re- 
spectful distance, which the important creatnre 
itself requires ; as a measuring-glance at its 
towering altitude would determine the affair like 
instinct. 

You are right, Madam, in your idea of poor 
Mylne's poem, which he has addressed to me. 
The piece has a good deal of merit, but it has 
one great fault — it is, by far, too long. Be- 
sides, my success has encouraged such a shoal 
of ill-spawned monsters to crawl into public 
notice, under the title of Scottish Poets, that 
the very term of Scottish Poetry borders on 

the burlesque. When I write to Mr. C , 

I shall advise him rather to try one of his de- 
ceased friend's Eng^lish pieces. I am prodigi- 
« .iijly hurried with my own matters, else I 
would have requested a perusal of all Mylne's 
poetic performances ; and would have offered 
his friends my assistance in either selecting or 
correcting what would be proper for the press. 
What it is that occupies me so much, and per- 
haps a little oppresses my present spirits, shall 
fill up a paragraph in some future letter. In 
the meantime allow me to close this epistle with 
a few lines done by a friend of mine . . . 
I give you them, that as you have seen 
the original, you may guess whether one or two 
alterations I have ventured to make in them, be 
any real improvement. 

Like the fair plant that from our touch with- 
draws, 
Shrink mildly fearful even from applause, 
Be all a mother's fondest hope can dream. 

And al\ you are, my charming , seem. 

Straight as the fox-glove, ere her bells disclose, 
Mild as the maiden-blushing hawthorn blows. 
Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind. 
Your form shall be the image of your mind : 
Your manners shall so true your soul express, 
That all shall long to know the worth they 

guess ; 
Congenial hearts shall greet with kindred love, 
And even sick'ning envy must approve. * 



No. CXII. 

LETTER FROM WILLIAM BURNS, 
POET'S BROTHER. 



THE 



[This and three letters which follow hereafter, are 
the genuine and artless productions of the poet's 
younger Brother, William Burns, a young 
man, who after having served an apprentice- 
ship to the trade of a Saddler, took his load 



* 'ihese beautiful lines, we have reason to believe, 
we the proiluctioa if the ladv to whom this letter in 



towards the South, an<l having resided a 
short time at Newcastle-upon-Tyne, arrived 
in London, where he died of a putrid fever 
in the year 1790.] 

DEAR SIR, Longtown, Feb, 15, 1789. 

As I am now in a manner only entering into 
the world, I begin this our correspondence, with 
a view of being a gainer by your advice, more 
than ever you can be by any thing I can write 
you of what I see, or what I hear, in the course 
of my wanderings. I know not how it hap- 
pened, but you were more shy of your counsel 
than I could have wished the time I staid with 
you ; whether it was because you thought it 
would disgust me to have my faults freely told 
me while I was dependant on you ; or whether 
it was because you saw that by my indolent dis- 
position, your instr\icti()ns would have no effect, 
I cannot determine ; but if it proceeded from 
any of the above causes, the reason of withholding 
your admonition is now done away, for I now 
stand on my cwn bottom, and that indolence, 
which I am very conscious of, is something 
rubbed off, by being called to act in life whether 
I will or not ; and my inexperience, which I 
daily feel, makes me wish for that advice which 
you are so able to give, and which I can only 
expect from you or Gilbert since the loss of the 
kindest and ablest of fathers. 

The morning after I went from the Isle, I 
left Dumfries about five o'clock and came to 
Annan to breakfast, and staid about an hour ; 
and I reached this place about two o'clock. I 
have got work here, and I intend to stay a month 
or six weeks, and then go forward, as I wish to 
be at York about the latter end of summer, 
where I propose to spend next winter, and go 
on for London in the spring. 

I have the ptomise of seven shillings a week 
from Mr. Proctor while I stay here, and six- 
pence more if he succeeds himself, for he haa 
only new begun trade here. I am to pay four 
shillings per week of board wages, so that my 
neat income here will be much the same as in 
Dumfries. 

The enclosed you will send to Gilbert with 
the first opportunity. Please send me the first 
Wednesday after you receive this, l)y the Car- 
lisle waggon, two of my coarse shirts, one of 
my best linen ones, my velveteen vest, and a 
neckcloth ; write to me along with them, and 
direct to me, Saddler, in Longtown, and they 
will not miscarry, for I am boarded in the 
waggoner's house. You may either let them 
be given in to the waggon, or send them to 
Coulthard and Gellebourn's shop and they will 
forward them. Pray write me often while I 
stay here. — I wish you would send me a letter, 
though never so small, every week, for they 
will be no expense to me, and but little trouble 
to you. Please to give my best wishes to my sis- 
ter-in-law, an<i believe me to be your affectionate 
And obliged Brother, 

WILLIAM BURNS 



326 



BURNS' WORKS. 



P. S. The great coat you gave me at parting 
did me singular service the day I came here, and 
merits my hearty thanks. From what has been 
said the conclusion is this ; that my hearty 
thanks and my best wishes are all that you and 
my sister must expect from 

W. B. 



No. CXIII. 
TO THE REV. P. CaRFRAE. 

REVEREND SIR, 1789. 

I DO not recollect that I have ever felt a se- 
veier pang of shame, than on looking at the 
date of your obliging letter, which accompanied 
Mr. Mylue's poem. 



I am much to blame : the honour Mr. Mylne 
has done me, greatly enhanced in its value by 
the endearing, though melancholy circumstance, 
of its being the last production of his muse, de- 
served a better return. 

I have, as you hint, thought of sending a 
copy of the poem to some periodical publica- 
tion ; but, on second thoughts, I am afraid 
that, in the present case, it would be an im- 
proper step. My success, perhaps as much ac- 
cidental as merited, has brought an inundation 
of nonsense under the name of Scottish poetry. 
Suuscription-bills for Scottish poems have so 
dunned, and daily do dun the public, that the 
very name is in danger of contempt. For these 
reasons, if publishing any of Mr. M.'s poems in 
a magazine, &c. be at all prudent, in my opinion 
it certainly should not be a Scottish poem. The 
profits of the labours of a man of genius, are, [ 
hope, as honourable as any profits whatever ; 
and Mr. Mylne's relations are most justly en- 
titled to that honest harvest, which fate has de- 
nied himself to reap. But let the friends of Mr. 
Mylne's fame (among whom I crave the honour 
of ranking myself), always keep in eye his re- 
Bpectability as a man and as a poet, and take no 
measure that, before the world knows any thing 
about him, would risk his name and character 
being classed with the fools of the times. 

I have. Sir. some experience of publishing ; 
and the way in which I would proceed with 
Mr. M/ine's poems, is this : — I would publish, 
in two or three English and Scottish public 
papers, any one of his English poems which 
should, by private judges, be thought the most 
excellent, and mention it at the same time, as 
one of the ];roductions of a Lothian farmer, of 
respectable character, lately deceased, whose 
piems his friends had it in idea to publish soon, 
(5/ subscription, for the sake of his numerous 
Sv nily : — not in pity to that family, but in jus- 
U2e to what his friends think the poetic merits 



of the deceased ; and to secure, in the most il 
fectual manner, to those tender 'jonnections 
whose right it is, the pecuniary reward of thos« 
merits. 



No. CXIV. 



TO DR. MOORE. 



SIR, Ellisland, 23d March, 178? . 

The gentleman who will deliver you this is it 
Mr. Niclson, a worthy clergyman in my neigh- 
bourhood, and a very particular acquaintance of 
mine. As I have troubled him with this packet, 
I must turn him over to your goodness, to re- 
compense him for it in a way in which he much 
needs your assistance, and where you can effec- 
tually serve him : — Mr. Nielson is on his way 
for Finance, to wait on his Grace of Queensberry, 
on some little business of a good deal of impor- 
tance to him, and he wishes for your instruc- 
tions respecting the most eligible mode of tra- 
velling, &c. for him, when he has crossed the 
Channel. I should not have dared to take this 
liberty with you, but that I am told, by those 
who have the honour of your personal acquaint- 
ance, that to be a poor honest Scotchman is a 
letter of recommendation to you, and that to 
have it in your power to serve such a character, 
gives you much pleasure. 



The enclosed ode is a compliment to the me- 
mory of the late Mrs. , of . You 

probably knew her personally, an honour of 
which I cannot boast ; but I spent my early 
years in her neighbourhood, and among her 
servants and tenants. 1 know that she was de- 
tested with the most heartfelt cordiality. How- 
ever, in the particular part of her conduct which 
roused my poetic wrath, she was much less 
blameable. In January last, on my road to 
Ayrshire, I had put up at Bailie Wigham's in 
Sanquhar, the only tolerable inn in the place. 
The frost was keen, and the grim evening and 
howling wind were ushering in a night of snow 
and drift. My horse and I were both much 
fatigued with the labours of the day, and just as 
my friend the Bailie and I were bidding defiance 
to the storm, over a smoking bowl, in wheels 
the funeral pageantry of the late great Mrs. 
, and poor I am forced to brave all the 



horrors of the tempestuous night, and jade my 
horse, my young favourite horse, whom I had 
just christened Pegasus, twelve miles farther 
on, through the wildest muirs and hills of Ayr 
shire, to New Cumnock, the next inn. The 
powers of poesy and prose sink under me, when 
I would describe what I felt. Suffice it to say, 
that when a good fire, at New Cumnock, had 
so far recovered my frozen sinews, I sat dowi> 
and wrote the enclosed ode. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



327 



I was at Edinburgh lately, and settled finally 
mth Mr. Creech ; and I must own, that, at 
sst. he has been amicable and fair with me. 



No. CXV. 



TO MR. PETER HILL. 

Ellisland, 2d April, J 789. 
I WILL make no excuses, my dear Bibliopo- 
'us, (God forgive me for murdering language !) 
that I have sat down to write you on this vile 
paper. 



It is economy, Sir ; it is that cardinal virtue, 
prudence ; so I beg you will sit down, and 
either compose or borrow a panegyric. If you 
are going to borrow, apply to 



to compose, or rather to compound, something 
very clever on my remarkable frugality ; that I 
write to one of my most esteemed friends on 
this wretched paper, which was originally in- 
tended for the venal fist of some drunken ex- 
ciseman, to take dirty notes in a miserable vault 
of an ale-cellar. 

O Frugality ! thou mother of ten thousand 
blessings — thou cook of fat beef and dainty 
greens ! — thou manufacturer of warm Shetland 
hose, and comfortable surtouts ! — thou old 
housewife, darning thy decayed stockings with 
thy ancient spectacles on thy aged nose ; — lead 
me, hand me in thy clutching palsied fist, up 
those heights, and through those thickets, hi- 
therto inaccessible, and impervious to my anxi- 
ous weary feet : — not those Parnassian craggs, 
bleak and barren, where the hungry worship- 
pers of fame are, breathless, clambering, hang- 
ing between heaven, and hell ; but those glitter- 
ing cliffs of Potosi, where the all-sufficient, all- 
powerful deity. Wealth, holds his immediate 
court of joys and pleasures ; where the sunny 
exposure of plenty, and the hot walls of profu- 
sion, produce those blissful fruits of luxury, 
exotics in this world, and natives of paradise ! — 
Thou withered sybil, my sage conductress, usher 
me into the refulgent, adored presence ! — The 
power, splendid and potent as he now is, was 
once the puling nursling of thy faithful care, 
and tender arms ! Call me thy son, thy cousin, 
thy kinsman, or favourite, and adjure the god, 
by the scenes of his infant years, no longer to 
repulse me as a stranger, or an alien, but to fa- 
vour me with his peculiar countenance and pro- 
tection 1 He daily bestows his greatest kindness 
on the undeserving and the worthless — assure 
him, that I bring ample documents of meritcri- 
2U8 demerits ' Pledge yourself for me, that, for 



the glorious cause of Lucre, 1 will do any thing, 
be any thing — but the horse -leech of priv&te 
oppression, or the vulture of public robbery ! 



But to descend from heroics, 



I want a Shakspeare ; I want likewise an Eng 
lish dictionary— Johnson's, I suppose, is best 
In these and all my prose commissions, the 
cheapest is always the best for me. There is 
a small debt of honour that I owe Mr. Robert 
Cleghorn, in Saughton Mills, my worthy friend, 
and your well-wisher. Please give him, and 
urge him to take it, the first time you see him, 
ten shillings worth of any thing you have to 
sell, and place it to my account. 

The library scheme tkat I mentioned to you 
is already begun, under the direction of Captain 
Riddel. There is another in emulation of it go- 
ing on at Closeburn, under the auspices of Mr. 
Monteith, of Closeburn, which will be on a 
greater scale than ours. Captain R. gave his 
infant society a great many of his old books, 
elsf! I had written you on that subject ; but, 
one of these days, I shall trouble you with a 
commission for " The Monkland Friendly So- 
ciety" — a copy of The Spectator, Mirror, and 
Lounger ; Man of Feeling, Man of the World, 
Guthrie's Geographical Grammar, with some 
religious pieces, will likely be our first order. 

When I grow richer, I will write to you on 
gilt post, to make amends for this sheet. At 
present, every guinea has a five-guinea errand 
with 

My dear Sir, 
Your faithful, poor, but honest friend, 
R. B. 



No. CXVI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 2d April, 1788. 



I NO sooner hit on any poetic plan or fanc^- 
but I wish to send it to you ; and if knowing 
and reading these give half the pleasure to you, 
that communicating them to you gives to me, 
I am satisfied. 



I have a poetic whim in my head, which I 
at present dedicate, or rather inscribe, to the 
j Right Hon. C. J. Fox ; but how long that 
fancy may hold, I cannot say. A few of the 
first lines I Lave just rough-sketched, as fol- 
lows ; — 



328 



BURNS' WORKS. 



SKETCH OF C. J. FOX. 

How wisdom and folly meot, mix, and unite ; 

How virtue and vict; hleaci their black and their 
white ; 

How gen'us, th* illustrious father of fiction. 

Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradic- 
tion — 

I sing : if these mortals, the critics, should 
bustle, 

I care not not I. let the critics go whistle. 

3ut now for a patron, whose name and whose 

glory, 
At once may illustrate and honour my story. 

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits ; 
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere 

lucky hits ; 
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so 

strong. 
No man with the half of *em e'er went far 

wrong ; 
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite right ; 
A sorry, poor misbegot son of the muses. 
For using thy name offers fifty excuses. 

Good L — d, what is man ! for as simple he 

looks. 
Do but try to develope his hooks and his crooks ; 
With his depths and his shallows, his good and 

his evil, 
All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil. 

On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely 

labours. 
That like the old Hebrew walking-switch, eats 

up its neighbours : 
Mankind are his show-box — a friend, would you 

know him ? 
Pull the string, ruling passion, the picture will 

show him. 
Wliat pity, in rearing so beauteous a system, 
One trifling particular, truth, should have miss'd 

him ; 
For, spite of his fine theoretic positions, 
Mankind is a science defies definitions. 

Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe. 
And think human nature they truly describe ; 
Have you found this, or t'other? there's more 

in the witnl, 
As bv one drunken fellow his comrades you'll 

find. 
But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan. 
In the make of that wonderful creature call'd 

31an. 
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, 
Nor even two different shades of the same, 
Though like as was ever twin brother to brother, 
Possessing the one shall imply you've the other. 



No. CXVTI. 
TO RHl. CUNNINGHAM. 

Mr nEAR SIR, Ellisland, ith May, 1789. 

Your duty free favour of the 26th April I 
received two days ago : I will not say I peru- 
sed it with pleasure ; that is the cold compli- 
ment of ceremony ; I perused it, Sir, with deli- 
cious satisfaction. — In short, it is such a letter, 
tjjat not you, nor your friend, but the legisla- 
ture, by express proviso in their postage laws, 
should frank. A letter informed with the soul 
of friendship, is such an honour to human na- 
ture, that they should order it free ingress and 
egress to and from their bags, and mails, as an 
encouragement and mark of distinction to su- 
per-eminent virtue. 

I have just put the last hand to a little poem 
which I think will be something to your taste. 
One morning lately as 1 was out pretty early 
in the fields sowing some grass seeds, I heard 
the burst of a shot from a neighbouring plan- 
tation, and presently a poor little wounded hare 
came crippling by me. You will guess my in- 
dignation at the inhuman fellow who could 
shoot a hare at this season, when they all ol 
them have young ones. Indeed there is some- 
thing in that business of destroying, for our 
sport, individuals in the animal creation that 
do not injure us materially, which I could never 
reconcile to my ideas of virtue. 

{See Poetry.) 

Let me know how you like my poem. I am 
doubtful whether it would not be an improve- 
ment to keep out the last stanza but one alto- 
gether. 

C is a glorious production of the author 

of man. You, he, and the noble Colonel of the 
C F are, to me, 

" Dear as the ruddy drops which warm my 
breast." 

I have a good mind to make verses on you all, 
to the tuue of ** three good fellows ayont the 



On the-20th current I hope to have the ho- 
nour cf assuring yuu, in person, how sincerely 
I am, 



No. CXVHI. 

TiiE poem, in th- preceding letter, had also 
been sent by our bard to Dr. Gregory for hia 
criticism. The following is that gentleman's 



re^ly. 



FROM DR. GREGORY. 



PEAR SIR, Edinburyh, 2d June, 1789. 

I ' AKE the first leisure hour 1 ciiuhl commana, 
to thank you for jnour letter, and the copy of 
verses enclosed in it. As there is real poetic 



329 



merit, T mean both fancy, and tenderness, and 
some happy expressions, in thein, I think they 
well deseive that you should revise them care- 
fully and polish them to the utmost. This I am 
sure you can do if you please, for you have great 
command both of expression and of rhymes : and 
you may judge from the two last pieces of Mrs. 
Hunter's poetry, that I gave you, how much 
correctness and high polish enhance the value of 
such compositions. As you desire it, I shall, 
with great freedom, give you my most rigorous 
criticisms on your verses. I wish you would 
give me another edition of them, much amend- 
ed, and I will send it to Mrs. Hunter, who, I 
am sure, will have much pleasure in reading it. 
Pray, give me likewise for myself, and her too, 
a copy (as much amended as you please) of the 
Water Fowl on Loch Turit. 

The Wounded Hare is a pretty good subject ; 
but the measure, or stanza, you have chosen for 
it, is not a good one ; it does not flow well ; 
and the rhyme of the fourth line is' almost lost 
by its distance from the first ; and the two in- 
terposed, close rhymes. If I were you, I would 
put it into a diflferent stanza yet. 

Stanza 1. — The execrations in the first two 
lines are strong or coarse ; but they may pass. 
" Murder-aiming" is a bad compound epithet, 
and not very intelligible. " Blood-stained," in 
stanza iii. line 4, has the same fault : Bleeding 
bosom is infinitely better. You have accustom- 
ed yourself to such epithets, and have no notion 
how stiff and quaint they appear to others, and 
how incongruous with poetic fancy, and tender 
sentiments. Suppose Pope had written, " Why 
that blood-stained bosom gored," how would you 
have liked it ? Form is neither a poetic, nor a 
dignified, nor a plain, common word : it is a 
mere sportsman's word ; unsuitable to pathetic 
or serious poetry. 

" Mangled" is a coarse word. " Innocent," 
in this sense, is a nursery word ; but both mav 
pass. 

Stanza 4-. — " Wlio will now provide that life 
a mother only can bestow,"' will not do at all : 
it is not grammar — it is not intelligible. Do 
you mean " provide for that life which the mo- 
ther had bestowed and used to provide for ?" 

There was a ridiculous slip of the pen, 
" Feeling" (I suppose) for " Fellow," in the 
title of your copy of verses ; but even fellow 
would be wrong : it is but a colloquial and vul- 
gar word, unsuitable to your sentiments. "Shot" 
is improper too. — On seeing a person (or a 
sportsman) wound a hare ; it is needless to add 
with what weapon ; but if you think otherwise, 
you should say, with a fowling-piece. 

Let me see you when you come to town, and 
I will show you some more of Mrs. Hunter's 
poems.* 



» It must be admitted, that this criticism is not 
more distinguished by its good sense, than by its free- 
dom from ceremony. It is impossible not to smile at 
the manner in which the poet may be supposed to have 
received it In fact it appears, as the sailors say, to 



No. CXIX. 
TO MR. JAMES HAMILTON, 

GROCER, GLASGOW. 

DEAR SIR, EUisland, May, 26, 1789. 

I SEND you by John Glover, carrier, tha 
above account for Mr. Turnbull, as I suppose 
you know his address. 

I would fain offer, my dear Sir, a word of 
sympathy with your misfortunes ; but it is a 
tender string, and I know not how to touch it. 
It is easy to flourish a set of high-flown sentiments 
on the subject that would give great satisfaction 
to — a breast quite at ease ; but as one observes, 
who was very seldom mistaken in the theory of 
life, " The heart knoweth its own sorrows, and 
a stranger intermeddleth not therewith." 

Among some distressful emergencies that I 
have experienced in life, I have ever laid this 
down as my foundation of comfort — That he 
he who has lived the life of an honest man, has 
by no means lived in vain ! 

With every wish for your welfare and futura 
success, 

I am, my dear Sir, 

Sincerely yours. 



No, CXX. 
TO WM. CREECH, Esq. 

SIR, EUisland, May 30, 1789. 

I HAD intended to have troubled you with a 
long letter, but at present the delightful sensa- 
tions of an onmipotent toothach so engross all 
my inner man, as to put it out of my power 
even to write nonsense. — However, as in duty 
bound, I approach my bookseller with an offer- 
ing in my hand — a few poetic clinches and a 
song : — To expect any other kind of offering 
from the rhyming tribe, would be to know 
them much less than you do. 1 do not pretend 
that there is much merit in these morceaux, but 
I have two reasons for sending them ; primo, 
they are mostly ill-natured, so are in unison with 
my present feelings, while fifty troops of infer- 
nal spirits are driving post from ear to ear along 
my jaw-bones ; and secondly, they are so short, 
that you cannot leave off in the middle, and f^' 
hurt my pride in the idea that you found any 
work of mine too heavy to get through. 

I have a request to beg of you, and I not on- 
ly beg of you, but conjure you — by all your 
wishes and by all your hopes, that the muse 



have thrown him quite a-back. In a letter which he 
wrotesoon after, hesays, " Dr. G — is agood man, 
but he crucifies me." — And again, " I believe in the 
iron justice of Dr. G ; but like the devils, I be- 
lieve and tremble." However, he profiled by these 
criticisms, as the reader will find, by comparing thij 
first edition of the poem, with that published aft«r 
wards. 



330 



BURNS' WORKS. 



will spare the satiric wink in the moment of 
your foibles ; that she will warble the song of 
rapture round your hymeneal couch ; and that 
she will shed on your turf the honest tear of 
elegiac gratitude ! grant my request as speedily 
as possible. — Send ne by the very first fly or 
coach for this place, three copies of the last edi- 
tion of my poems ; which place to my account. 
Now, may the good things of prose, and the 
good things of verse, come among thy hands 
until they be filled with the good things of this 
life ! prayeth 

robt. burns. 



No. CXXI. 
TO MR. M'AULEY, 

OF DUMBARTON. 

DEAR SIR, Uh June, 1789. 

Though I am not without my fears respect- 
ing my fate at that grand, universal inquest of 
right and wrong, commonly called The JLast 
Day, yet I trust there is one sin, which that 
arch-vagabond, Satan, who, I understand, is to 
be king's evidence, cannot throw in my teeth 
— I mean ingratitude. There is a certain pret- 
ty large quantum of kindness for which I re- 
main, and from inability, I fear, must remain 
your debtor ; but though unable to repay the 
debt, I assure yon, Sir, I shall ever warmly re- 
member the obligation. It gives me the sin- 
cerest pleasure to hear by my old acquaintance, 
Mr. Kennedy, that you are, in immortal Allan's 
language, " Hale and weel, and living ;" and 
that your charming family are well, and promis- 
ing to be an amiable and respectable addition to 
the company of performers, whom the Great 
Manager of the Drama of Man is bringing int© 
action for the succeeding age 

With respect to my welfare, a subject in 
wliich you once warmly and efi'ectively interest- 
ed yourself, I am here in my old way, holding 
my plough, marking the growth of my corn, or 
the health of my dairy ; and at times saunter- 
ing by the delightful windings of the Nith, on 
the margin of which I have built my humble 
domicile, praying for seasonable weather, or 
holding an intrigue with the Muses ; the only 
gypseys with whom I have now any intercourse. 
As I am entered into the holy state of matrimo- 
ny, I trust my face is turned completely Zion- 
ward ; and as it is a rule with all honest fel- 
iows, to repeat no grievances, I hope that the 
»ittle poetic licences of former days, will of 
course fall under the oblivious influence of some 
good-natured statute of celestial proscription. 
In my family devotion, which, like a good pres- 
byterian, 1 occasionally give to my household 
folks, I am extremely fond of the psalm, " Let 
aot the errors of my youth," &c. and that other, 



" Lo, children are God's Heritage,'* &c. la 
which last Mrs. Burns, who, by the bye, has a 
glorious '' wood-note wild" at either old song 
or psalmody, joins me with the pathos of Han- 
del's Messiah. 



No. CXXII. 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Ellisland, June 8, 1789. 

MY DEAR FRIEND, 

I AM perfectly ashamed of myself when i 
look at the date of your last. It is not that I 
forget the friend of my heart and the companion 
of my peregrinations ; but I have been con- 
demned to drudgery beyond sufi>irance, though 
not, thank God, beyond redemption. I have 
had a collection of poems by a lady put into my 
hands to prepare them for the press ; which 
horrid task, with sowing my corn with my own 
hand, a parcel of masons, wrights, plaisterers, 
&c. to attend to, roaming on business through 
Ayrshire — all this was against me, and the very 
first dreadful article was of itself too much for 
me. 

13th. I have not had a moment to spare from 
incessant toil since the 8th. Life, my dear Sir, 
is a serious matter. You know by experience 
that a man's individual self is a good deal, but 
believe me, a wife and family of children, when- 
ever you have the honour to be a husband and 
a father, will shew you that your present most 
anxious hours of solicitude are spent en trifles. 
The welfare of those who are very dear to us, 
whose only support, hope and stay we are — this, 
to a generous mind, is another sort of more im- 
portant object of care than any concerns what- 
ever which centre merely in the individual. On 
the other hand, let no ytvng, unmarried, rake- 
helly dog among you, make a song of his pre- 
tended liberty and freedom from care. If the 
relations we stand in to king, country, kindred, 
and friends, be any thing but the visionary fan- 
cies of dreaming metaphysicians ; if religion, 
virtue, magnanimity, generosity, humanity and 
justice be aught but empty sounds ; then the 
man who may be said to live only for others, 
for the beloved, honourable female whose tender 
faithful embrace endears life, and for the help- 
less little innocents who are to be the men and 
women, the worshippers of his God, the sub- 
jects of his king, and the support, nay the very 
vital existence of his Country, in the ensuing 
age ; — compare such a man with any fellow 
whatever, who, whether he bustle and push in 
business among labourers, clerks, statesmen ; or 
whether he roar and rant, and drink and sing 
in taverns — a fellow over whose grave no one 
will breathe a single heigh-ho, except from th« 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



331 



cobweb-tie of what is called good felJowship — 
who has no view nor aim but what terminates 
in himself — if there be any grovelling earthborn 
wretch of our species, a renegado to common 
sense, who would fain believe that the noble 
creature, man, is no better than a sort of fun- 
gus, geaerated out of nothing, nobody knows 
how, and soon dissipating in nothing, nobody 
knows where ; such a stupid beast, such a 
cravv'liug reptile might balance the foregoing 
unexaggerated comparison, but no one else 
would have the patience. 

Forgive me, my dear Sir, for this long silence. 
To make you amends, I shall send you soon, 
and more encouraging still, withcat any postage, 
one or two rhymes of my later manufacture. 



No. CXXIIL 
FROM DR. MOORE. 

DEAR SIR, Clifford Street, 10th June,l789. 

I THANK you for the different communica- 
tions jou have made me of your occasional pro- 
ductions in manuscript, all of which have merit, 
and some of them merit of a different kind from 
what appears in the poems you have published. 
You ought carefully to preserve all your occa- 
sional productions, to correct and improve them 
at your leisure : and when you cim select as 
many of these as will make a volume, publish 
it either at Edinburgh or London, by subscrip- 
tion : On vSuch an occasion, it may be in my 
power, as it is very much in my inclination, to 
be of service to you. 

If I were to offer an opinion, it would be, that 
in your future productions you should abandon 
the Scottish stanza and dialect, and adopt the 
measure and language of modern English poetry. 

The stanza which you use in imitation of 
Christ Kirk on the Green, with the tiresome 
repitition of " that day," is fatiguing to English 
ears, and I should think not very agreeable to 
Scottish. 

All the fine satire and humour of your II(jIi/ 
Fair is lost on the English ; yet, without more 
trouble to yourself, you could have conveyed the 
whole to them. The same is true of some of 

your other poems. In your Epistle to J. S , 

the stanzas from that beginning with this line, 
" This life, so far's I understand," to that which 
ends with, " Short while it grieves," are easy, 
flowing, gaily philosophical, and of Horatian ele- 
gan ^ — the language is English, with a. few Scot- 
tish 'vords, and some of those so harmonious, 
as to add to the beauty : for what poet would 
not prefer gloaming to twilight. 

I imagine, that by carefully keeping, and oc- 
casionally polishing and correcting those verses, 
which the muse dictates, you will, within a year 
or two, have another volume as large as the first, 
ready for the press j and this, without diverting 



3 or: from every proper attention 'o the study 
£.nd practice of husbandry, in which I under- 
stand you are very learned, and which I fancy 
you will choose to adhere to as a vife, whiKe 
poetry amuses you from time to time as a mis- 
tress. The former, like a prudent wife, must 
not show ill humour, although you retain a 
sneaking kindness to this agreeable gipsy, and 
pay her occasional visits, which in no manner 
alienates your heart from your lawful spouse, but 
tends on the contrary to promote her interest. 

I desired Mr. Cadell to write to Mr. Creech 
to send you a copy of Zeluco. This perform- 
ance has had great success here, but I shall be 
glad to have your opinion of it, because I know 
you are above saying what you do not think. 

I beg you will offer my best wishes to my 
very good friend Mrs. Hamilton, who I under- 
stand is your neighbour. If she is as happy as 
I wish her, she is happy enough. Make mj 
compliments also to Mrs. Burns, and believe m« 
to be, with sincere esteem, 

Dear Sir, yours, &c. 



No. CXXIV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 2\st June, 1789. 

DEAR MADAM, 

Will you take the effusions, the miserable 
effusions of low spirits, just as they flow from 
their bitter spring. I know not of any particu- 
lar cause for this worst of all my foes besetting 
me, but for some time my soul has been be- 
clouded with a thickening atmosphere of evil 
imaginations and gloomy presages. 



Monday Evening. 
I have just heard .... give a sermon. 
He is a man famous for his benevolence, and I 
revere him ; but from such ideas of ray Creator, 
good Lord deliver me ! Religion, my honoured 
friend, is surely a simple business, as it equally 
concerns the ignorant and the learned, the poor 
and the rich. That there is an incomprehensi- 
bly great Being, to whom I owe my existence, 
and that he must be intimately acquainted with 
the operations and progress of the internal ma- 
chinery, and consequent outward deportment of 
this creature which he has made ; these are, I 
think, self-evident propositions. That there is 
a real and eternal distinction between vh-tue and 
vice, and consequently that I am an accountable 
creature ; that from the seeming nature of th» 
human mind, as well as from the evident im 
perfection, nay, positive injustice, in the admi- 
nistration of affairs, both in the natural and 
mortti worlds, there must be a retributive scene 
of e sistence beyond the grave ; must, I think 



32 



BURNS' WORKS. 



be allowed by every one who will give himself a 
moment's reflection. I will go farther, and af- 
firm, that from the sublimity, excellence, aiid 
purity of his doctrine and precepts, unparalleled 
by all the aggregated wisdom and learning of 
many preceding ages, though, to appearance, he 
hmiself was the obscurest and most illiterate of 
our species ; therefore, Jesus Christ was from 
God. 



Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases 
the happiness of others, this is my criterion of 
goodness ; and whatever injures society at large, 
or any individual in it, this is my measure of 
iniquity. 

What think you, Madam, of my creed ? 1 
trust that I have said nothing that will lessen 
me in the eye of one, whose good opinion I va- 
lue almost next to the approbatior- of my own 
raind. 



No. CXXV. 



FROM MISS J. L- 



SIR, Loudon-House, \2th July, 1789. 

Though I have not the happiness of being 
personally acquainted with you, yet amongst the 
number of those who have I'ead and admired 
your publications, may I be permitted to trouble 
you with this. You must know, Sir, I am 
somewhat in love with the Muses, though 1 
cannot boast of any favours they have deigned 
to confer upon me as yet ; my situation in life 
has been vciy much against me as to that. 1 
have spent some years in and about Ecclefechan 
(where my parents reside), in the station of a 
servant, and am now come to Loudon-House, 

at present possessed by Mrs. H : she is 

daughter to Mis. Dunlop, of Dunlop, whom I 
understand you are particularly acquainted with. 
As I had the pleasure of perusing your poems, 
I felt a partiality for the author, which I should 
not have experienced had you been in more dig- 
nified station. I wrote a few verses of address 
to you, which I did not then think of ever pre- 
senting : but as fortune seems to have favoured 
me in this, by bringing me into a family by 
whom you are well known and much esteemed, 
and where perhaps I may have an opportunity 
of seeing you ; I shall, in hopes of your future 
friendship, take the liberty to transcribe them. 



Fair fa' the honest rustic swain, 
The pride o* a* our Scottish plain : 
Thou gl'es us joy to hear thy strain, 

And note sae sweet ; 
Uid Ramsay's shade revived again 

In thee we greet. 



Loved Thalia, that delightf i' muse, 
Seem'd lang shut up as a recluse ; 
To all she did her aid refuse, 

Since Allan's day : 
'Till Burns arose, then did she chuse 

To grace his lay. 

To hear thy sang all ranks desire, 
Sae weel you strike the dormant lyre ; 
Apollo with poetic fire 

Thy breast does wai'm ■ 
And crit/ics silently admire 

Thy art to charm. 

Caesar and Luath weel can speak, 
'Tis pity e'er their gabs should steek. 
But into human nature keek, 

And knots unravel : 
To hear their lectures once a-week. 

Nine miles I'd travel. 

Thy dedication to G. H. 

An unco bonnie hamespun speech, 

Wi' winsome glee the heart can teacli 

A better lesson. 
Than servile bards, who fawn and fieecb 

Like beggar's messon. 

When slighted love becomes your theme. 
And women's faithless vows you blame • 
With so much pathos you exclaim, 

In your lament ; 
But glanced by the most frigid dame, 

She would relent. 

The daisy too ye sing wi' skill ; 
And weel ye praise the whisky gill ; 
In vain I blunt my feckless quill. 

Your fame to raise ; 
While echo sounds from ilka hill, 

To Burns's praise. 

Did Addison or Pope but hear. 

Or Sam, that critic most severe, 

A ploughhoy sing with throat sae clear, 

They in a rage. 
Their works would a' in pieces tear, 

And curse your page. 

Sure Milton's eloquence were faint. 
The beauties of your verse to paint, 
My rude unpolish'd strokes but taint 

Their brilliancy ; 
Th* attempt would doubtless vex a saint 
And weel may me. 

The ta^ I'll drop with heart sincere, 
To heaven present my humble pray'r 
That all the blessings mortals share, 

May be by turns, 
Dispensied by an indulgent care 

To Robert Burns. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



S33 



Sir, I hope you will pardon my boldness in 
this ; my hand trembles while 1 write to you, 
conscious of my unworthiness of what I would 
most earnestly solicit, viz. your favour and 
friendship ; yet hoping you will show yourself 
possessed of as much generosity and good-nature 
as will prevent your exposing what may justly 
be found liable to censure in this measure, I 
shall take the liberty to subscribe myself, 
Sir, 
Your most obedient hun *)le servant, 

P. S. — If you would condescend to honour 
me with a few lines from your hand, 1 would 
take it as a particular favour, and direct to me 
at Loudon-House, near Galslock. 



No. CXXVl 

FROM MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

MY DEAR SIR, London, 5th Aug. 1789. 

Excuse me when I say, that the uncommon 
abilities which you possess, must render your 
correspondence very acceptable to any one. I 
can assure you, I am particularly proud of your 
partiality, and shall endeavour, by every method 
in ray power, to merit a continuance of your 
politeness. 



When you can spare a few moments I should 
be proud of a letter from you, directed for me, 
Gerrard Street, Soho. 



I cannot express my happiness sufficiently 
at the instance of your attachment to my late 
inestimable friend, Bob Fergusson, who was 
particularly intimate with myself and relations.* 
While I rcollect with pleasure his extraordinary 
talents, and many amiable qualities, it affords 
me the greatest consolation, that I am honoured 
with the correspondence of his successor in na- 
tional simplicity and genius. That Mr. Burns 
has refined in the art of poetry, must readily be 
admitted ; but notwithstanding many favourable 
representations, I am yet to leain that he in- 
herits his convivial povvei^s. 

There was such a richness of conversation, 
snch a plenitude of fancy and attraction in him, 
that when I call the happy period of our inter- 
course to my memory, 1 feel m.yself in a state of 
delirium. I was then younger than him by 
eight or ten years ; but his manner was so feli- 
citous, that he enraptured every person around 
him, and infused into the hearts of the young 
and old, the spirit and animation which operated 
9n his own mind. 

I am, dear Sir, yours, &c. 



• I he erection of a monument to him. 



No. CXXVII. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM, 

IN ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING 
MY DEAR SIR, 

The hurry of a farmer in this particular sea- 
son, and the indolence of a poet at all times and 
seasons, will, I hope, plead my excuse for ne- 
glecting so long to answer your obliging letter 
of the 5th of August. 

That you have done well in quitting your la- 
borious concern \n , . . .1 do not doubt ; 
the weighty reasons you mention were, I hope, 
very, and deservedly indeed, weighty ones, and 
your health is a matter of the last importance ; 
but whether the remaining proj)rietors of the 
paper have also done well, is what I much 

doubt. The , so far as I was a 

reader, exhibited such a brilliancy of point, such 
an elegance of paragraph, and such a variety of 
intelligence, that I can hardly conceive it ])ossi- 
ble to continue a daily paper in the same degree 
of excellence ; but if there was a man who had 
abilities equal to the task, that man's assistance 
the proprietors have lost. 



When I received your letter I was transcri- 
bing for . . . ., my letter to the magistrates 
of the Canongate, Edinburgh, beggmg their per- 
mission to place a tomb-stone over poor Fergus- 
son, and their edict in consequence of my peti- 
tion ; but now I shall send them to ... . 
Poor Fergusson ! If there be a life be- 
yond the grave, which I trust there is ; and if 
there be a good God presiding over all nature, 
which I am sure there is ; thou art now enjoy- 
ing existence in a glorious world, where worth 
of the heart alone is distinction in the man ; 
where riches, deprived of all their pleasure-pur- 
chasing powers, return to their native sordid 
maUt'i : where titles and honours are the disre- 
gar(i,il reveries of an idle dream; and where 
tha? leavy virtue, which is the negative conse- 
qui/uv? of steady dulness, and those thoughtless, 
though often destructive follies, which are the 
unavoidable aberrations of frail human nature, 
will be thrown into equal oblivion as if they had 
never been ! 

Adieu, my dear Sir ! so soon as your present 
views and schemes are concentred in an aim, I 
shall be glad to hear from you : as your wel- 
fare and happiness is by no means a subject in- 
different to 

Yours, &c. 



S34 



BURNS' WORKS. 



No. CXXVIII. 
TO MRS DUNLOP. 

ElUsland, 6th September, 1789. 

DEAR MADAM, 

I HAVE mentioned in ray last, my appoint- 
ment to the excise, and the birth of little Frank ; 
who, by the bye, I trust will be no discredit to 
tl e honourable name of Wallace, as he has a 
fine manly countenance, and a figure that might 
do credit to a little fellow two months older ; 
and likewise an excellent good temper, though 
when he pleases he has a pipe, only not quite so 
loud as the horn that his immortal namesake 
blew as a signal to take out the pin of Stirling 
bridge. 

T had some time ago an epistle, part poetic, 
and part prosaic, from your poetess, Mrs. J. 
L ; a very ingenious, but modest compo- 
sition. I should have written her as she re- 
quested, but for the hurry of this new business. 
I have heard of her and her compositions in this 
country : and I am happy to add, always to the 
honour of her character. The fact is, I know 
not well how to write to her ; I should sit 
down to a sheet of paper that I knew not how 
to stain. I am no daub at fine drawn letter- 
writing ; and except when prompted by friend- 
ship or gratitude, or which happens extremely 
rarely, inspired by the Muse (I know not her 
name), that presides over epistolary writing, I 
sit down, when necessitated to write, as I would 
sit down to beat hemp. 

Some parts of your letter of the 20th August 
struck me with melancholy concern for the state 
of your mind at present. 



Would I could write you a letter of comfort ! I 
would sit down to it with as much pleasure, as 
I would to write an epic poem of my own com- 
position, that should equal the Iliad. Religion, 
ray dear friend, is the true comfort ! A strong 
persuasion in a future state of existence ; a pro- 
position so obviously probable, that, setting re- 
velation aside, every nation and people, so far as 
investigation has reached, for at least near four 
thousand years, have, in some mode or other, 
firmly believed it. In vain would we reason and 
pretend to doubt. I have myself done so to a 
very daring pitch ; but when I reflected, that 1 
was opposing the most ardent wishes, and the 
most darling hopes of good men, and flying in 
the face of all human belief, in all ages, I was 
shocked at Miy own conduct. 

I know not whether I have ever sent you the 
following lines, or if you have ever seen them ; 
but it is one of my favourite quotations, which 
I keep constantly by me in my progre>8 through 
life, in the language of the "look of Job, 

" Against the da: of battle and of war." — 

spoken of religioiv 



** *Tis this, ray friend, that streaks our morning 

bright, 
'Tis this that gilds the horror of our night, 
"When wealth forsakes us, and when friend* 

are few ; 
When friends are faithless, or when foes pur 

sue ; 
*Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the 

smart. 
Disarms affliction or repels his dart : 
Within the 'treast bids purest raptures rise. 
Bids smiliny. conscience spread her cloudless 

skies.' 

I have been very busy with Zehico. The 
Doctor is so obliging as to request my opinion 
of it ; and I have been revolvmg in my mind 
some kind of criticisms on novel writing, but 
it is a depth beyond my research. I shall how- 
ever digest my thoughts on the subject as well 
as I can. Zelnco ib a most sterhng perfor- 
mance. 

Farewell ! A Dieu, le hon Dieu, je votu 
commende ! 



No. CXXIX. 

FROM DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Edinburgh, 24'th August, 1789. 
Dear Burns, thou brother of my heart, 
Both for thy virtues and thy art : 
If art it may be call'd in thee. 
Which nature's bounty, large and free, 
With pleasure on thy breast diffuses. 
And warms thy soul with all the Muses. 
Whether to laugh with easy grace. 
Thy numbers move the sage's face. 
Or bid the softer passions rise. 
And ruthless souls with grief surprise, 
'Tis nature's voice distinctly felt. 
Through thee her organ, thus to melt; 

Most anxiously I wish to know, 
With thee of late how matters go ; 
How keeps thy much-loved Jean her health? 
What promises thy farm of wealth ? 
Whether the Muse persists to smile, 
And all thy anxious cares beguile ? 
Whether bright fancy keeps alive ? 
And how thy darling infants thrive ? 

For me, with grief and sickness spent. 
Since I my journey homeward bent. 
Spirits depress'd no more I mourn, 
But vigour, life, and health return. 
No more to gloomy thoughts a prey, 
I sleep all night, and live all day ; 
By turns my book and friend enjoy. 
And thus my circling hours employ ; 
Happy while yet these hours remain. 
If Burns could join the cheerful train. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



335 



With wo ited zeal, sincere and fervent, 
Salute once more his humble servant, 

THO. BLACKLOCK. 



No. CXXX. 

TO DR. BLACKLOCK 

ElUsIand2\st October, 1789. 
Wov»-, but your letter made me vauntie ! 
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie ? 
I ken'd it still your wee bit jauntie, 

Wad bring ye to 
Lord send you aye as weel's I want ye. 

And then ye'll do. 

The ill-thief blaw the Heron south ! 
And never drink be near his drouth ! 
He tauld mysel by word o* mouth, 

He'd tak m; 'etter ; 
I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth, 

And bade nae better 

B'ut aiblins honest Master Heron, 
Had at the time some dainty fair one, 
To ware his theologic care on, 

And holy study ; 
And tired o' sauls to waste his lear on. 

E'en tried the body. * 

But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, 
I'm turn'd a ganger — Peace be here ! 
Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear, 

Ye'll now disdain me. 
And then my fifty pounds a-year 

Will little gain me. 

Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, 
Wha by Castalia's winiplin streamies, 
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbics. 

Ye keu, ye ken, 
That Strang necessity supreme is 

'Mdiig sons o men. 

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies. 

They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies : 

Ye ken yoursel my heart right proud is, 

I needna vaunt. 
Bat ril sned besoms — thraw saugh woodies. 

Before they want. 

Lord help me through this warld o' care ! 
I'm weary sick o't late and air I 
Not but I hae a richer share 

Than mony Ithers ; 
But why snouia ae man better fare, 

And a' men brithers ! 



Come Firm Resolve take thou tne van 
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man ! 
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 

A lady fiir : 
Wha does the utmost that he can. 

Will whyles do mair. 

But to conclude my silly rhyme, 

(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time), 

To make a happy fire-side clime 

To weans and wife, 
That's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 

My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
And eke the same to honest Lucky ; 
I wat she is a dainty chuckie. 

As e'ei tread clay ; 
And gratefully my gude auld cockie, 

I'm your's fi)r aye. 
ROBERT BURNS. 



• Mr. Heron, author of the History of Scotland 
and air.(ing various other works, of a respectable life 
of our poet himself. 



No. CXXXI. 
TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, Carse. 

SIR, ElUsland, Oct. 16, 1789. 

Big with the idea of this important day * at 
Friars Carse, I have watched the elements and 
skies in the full persuasion that they would an- 
nounce it to the astonished world by some pheno~ 
mena of terrific portent. — Yesternight until a 
very late hour did I wait with anxious horror, 
for the appearance of some Comet firing half the 
sky ; or aerial armies of sanguinary Scandina- 
vians, darting athwart the startled heavens ra- 
pid as the ragged lightning, and horrid as those 
convulsions of nature that bury nations. 

The elements, however, seem to take the mat- 
ter very quietly : they did not even usher in 
this morning with triple suns and a shower o 
blood, symbolical of the three potent heroes, and 
the mighty claret-shed of the day. — For me, as 
Thomson in his Winter says of the storm — I 
shall " Hear astonished, and astonished sing," 

The whistle and the man ; I sing 
The man that won the whistle, he. 



No. CXXXII. 
TO THE SAME. 



SIR, 



I WISH from my inmost soul it were in my 
power to give you a more substantial gratifica- 



for. 



The day on which " the Whistle" was contended 



336 



BURNS WORKS. 



! I 



tion and return for all your goodness to the poet, 
than transcribing a few of his idle rhymes. — 
However, " an old song," though to a proverb 
an instance of insignificance, is generally the 
only coin a poet has to pay with. 

If my poems which I have transcribed, and 
mean still to transcribe into your book, were 
equal to the grateful respect and high esteem I 
bear for the gentleman to whom I present them, 
they would he the linest poems in the language. 
— As they are, they will at least be a testimony 
with what sincerity I have the honour to be. 
Sir, 
Your devoted humble servant. 



I I 



No. CXXXIII. 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Ellisland, Nov. 1, 1789. 

MY DKAR FRIEND, 

I HAD written you long ere now, could I have 
guessed where to find you, for I am sure you 
have more good sense than to waste the precious 
days of vacation time in the dirt of business and 
Edinburgh. — Wherever you are, God bless you, 
and lead you not into temptation, but deliver 
vou from evil ! 

I do not know if I have informed you that I 
am now appointed to an excise division, in the 
middle of which my house and farm lie. In this 
I was extremely lucky. Without ever having 
been an expectant, as they call their journeymen 
excisemen, I was directly planted down to all in- 
tents and purposes an officer of excise ; there to 
flourish and bring forth fruits — worthy of re- 
pentance. 

I know not how the word exciseman, or still 
more opprobrious, ganger, will sound in your 
ears. I too have seen the day when my audi- 
tory nerves would have felt very delicately on 
this subject ; but a wife and children are things 
which have a wonderful power in blunting these 
kind of sensations. Fifty pounds a year for 
life, and a provision for widows and orphans, 
you will allow is no bad settlement for a poet. 
For the ignominy of the profession, I have the 
encouragement which I once heard a recruiting 
sergeant give to a numerous, if not a respec- 
table audience, in the streets of Kilmarnock. 
— " Gentlemen, for your further and better en- 
couragement, I can assure you that our regiment 
is the most blackguard corps under the crown, 
end consequently with us an honest fellow has 
he surest chance for preferment." 

You need not doubt that I find several very 
unpleasant and disagreeable circumstances in my 
Dusiness ; but I am tired with and disgusted 
at the language of complaint against the evils of 
life. Humin existence in the most favourable 
situations does not abound with pleasures, and 
aas its inconveniences and ills ; capricious fool- | 



ish man mistakes .hese inconveniences and ills 
as if they were the peculiar property of his par 
ticular situation ; and hence that eternal fickle- 
ness, that love of change, which has ruined, and 
daily does ruin many a fine fellow, as well as 
many a blockhead ; and is almost, without ex- 
ception, a constant source of disappointment and 
misery. 

I long to hear from you how you go on — not 
so much in business as in life. Are you pretty 
well satisfied with your own exertions, and to- 
lerably at ease in your internal reflections ? 
'Tis much to be a great character as a lawyer, 
but beyond comparison more to be a great cha- 
racter as a man. That you may be both the 
one and the other is the earne!«t wish, and that 
you ivill be both is the firm persuasion of, 
My dear Sir, &c. 



No. CXXXIV. 
TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRY. 

SIR, 9th December, 1789. 

I HAVE a good while had a wish to trouble 
you with a letter, and had certainly done it long 
ere now — but for a humiliating something that 
throws cold water on the resolution, as if one 
should say, " You have found Mr. Graham a 
very powerful and kind friend indeed, and that 
interest he is so kindly taking in your concerns, 
you ought by every thing in your powei* to keep 
alive and cherish." Now though, since God 
has thought proper to make one powerful and 
another helpless, the connexion of ohliger and 
obliged is all fair ; and though my being under 
your patronage is to me highly honourable, yet, 
Sir, allow me to flatter myself, that, as a poet 
and an honest man, you first interested yourself 
in my welfare, and principally as such still, you 
permit me to approach you. 

I have found the excise business go on a great 
deal smoother with me than I expected ; owing 
a good deal to the generous friendship of Mr. 
Mitchell, my collector, and the kind assistance 
of Mr. Find later, my supervisor. 1 dare ro be 
honest, and I fear no labour. Nor do I find 
my hurried life greatly inimical to my corres- 
pondence with the Muses. Their visits to me, 
indeed, and I believe to most of their acquaint- 
ance, like the visits of good angels, a';e short and 
far between ; but I meet them now and then as 
I jog through the hills of Nithsdale, just as I 
used to do on the banks of Ayr. I take the li- 
berty to enclose you a few bagatelles, all of them 
the productions of my leisure thoughts in my 
excise rides. 

If you know or have ever seen Captain Grose, 
the antiquarian, you will enter into any humour 
that is in the verses on him. Perhaps you have 
seen them before, as I sent them to a Loudon 

spaper. Though I dare say you have norw 



COR RESPONDENCE. 



of tie solemn-league-and-covenant fire, which 
^hone so conspicuous in Lord George Gordon, 
and the Kilmarnock weavers, yet I think you 
must have heard of Dr. M'Gill, one of the cler- 
gymen of Ayr, and his heretical book. God 
help him, poor man ! Though he is one of fhe 
worthiest, as well as one of the ablest of the 
whole priesthood of the Kirk of Scotland, in 
every sense of that ambiguous term, yet the povjr 
Doctor and his numerous family are in inimi- 
nent danger of being thrown out to the mercy 
of the winter-winds. The enclosed ballad on 
that business is, I confess, too local, but I 
laughed myself at some conceits in it, though 
I am convinced in my conscience, that there are 
a good many heavy stanzas in it too. 

The election ballad, as you will see, alludes 
to the present canvass in our string of boroughs. 
I do not believe there will be such a hard run 
match in the whole general election. * 



I am too little a man to have any political 
attachments; I am deeply indebted to, and 
have the warmest veneration for, individuals 
of both parties ; but a man who has it in his 
powfer to be the father of a country, and who 

is a character that one cannot 

speak of with patience. 

Sir J. J. does " what man can do," but yet 
I doubt his fate. 



No. CXXXV. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



Ellisland, \Sth December, 1789. 
Ma NT thanks, dear Madam, for your sheet- 
fui of Rhymes. Though at present I am below 
the veriest prose, yet from you every thing 
pleases. I am groaning under the miseries of 
a diseased nervous system ; a system, the state 
of which is most conducive to our happiness — 
or the most productive of our misery. For 
now near three weeks I have been so ill with 
a nervous head-ache, that I have been obliged 
to give up, for a time, my excise books, being 
scarce able to lift my head, much less to ride 
once a-week over ten muir parishes. What is 
Man ! To-day, in the luxuriance of health, ex- 
ulting in the enjoyment of existence ; in a few 
days, perhaps in a few hours, loaded with con- 
scious painful being, counting the tardy pace of 
the lingering moments by the repercussions of 
anguish, and refusing or denied a comforter. 
Day follows niglit, and night comes after day, 



* This alludes to the contest for the borough of 
Dumfries, between the Duke of Queensberry's interest 
»nd that of Sir Jarnes Johnstone. 



only to curse him with life wLiich gives him nd 
pleasure ; and yet the awful, dark terminatiMi 
of that life, is a something at which he recoils, 

" Tell us, ye dead ; will none of you In pity 

Disclose the secret 

What 'tis you are, and we must shortly he ! 



tis no matter : 



A little time will make us learn'd as you are." 

Can it be possible, that when I resign this 
frail, feverish being, I shall still find myself io 
conscious existence ! When the last gasp of 
agony. has announced, that I am no more to 
those that knew me, and the few who loved 
me : when the cold, stifiened, unconscious, 
ghastly corse is resigned into the earth, to be 
the prey of unsightly reptiles, and to become in 
time a trodden clod, shall I yet be warm in life, 
seeing and seen, enjoying and enjoyed ? Ye ve- 
nerable sages, and holy flamens, is there proba- 
bility in your conjectures, truth in your stories 
of another world beyond death ; or are they all 
alike, baseless visions, and fabricated fables .' If 
there is another life, it must be only for the just, 
the l)enevolerit, the amiable, and the humane ; 
what a flattering idea, then, is the world to 
come? Would to God I as firmly believed it, 
as I ardently wish it ! There I should meet an 
aged parent, now at rest from the many bufl^et- 
ings of an evil world, against which he so long 
and so bravely struggled. There should I meet 
the friend, the disinterested friend of my early 
life ; the man who rejoiced to see me, because 

he loved me and could serve me Muir ! thy 

weaknesses were the aberrations of human na- 
ture, but thy heart glowed with every thing ge- 
nerous, manly, and noble ; and if ever emana- 
tion from the All-good Being animated a human 
form, it was thine ! — There should I with 
speechless agony of rapture, again recognize my 
lost, my ever dear Mary ! whose bosom was 
fraught with truth, honour, constancy, and love. 

My INIary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of heavenly rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast .' 

Jesus Christ, thou amiablest of charactei-s I 
I trust thou art no impostor, and that thy re- 
velation of blissful scenes of existence beyond 
death and the grave, is not one of the many 
impositions which time after time have been 
palmed on credulous mankind. I trust that in 
thee, " shall all the families of the earth be 
blessed," by being yet connected together in 
better world, where every tie that bound heart 
to heart, in this state of existence, shall be, far 
beyond our present conceptions, more endearing 

I am a good deal inclined to think with thos« 
who maintain, that what are called nervous af- 
fections are in fact diseases of the mind. I can- 
not reason, I cannot think ; and but to you I 
would not venture to write any thiug above as 
V 



338 



BURNS' WORKS. 



order to a cobbler. You have felt too much of 
the ills of life not to sympathize with a diseased 
wretch, who has impaired more than half of any 
faculties he possessed. Your goodness will ex- 
cuse this distracted scrawl, which the writer 
diiie scarcely read, and which he would throw 
mto the fire, were he able to write any thing 
better, or indeed any thing at all. 

Rumour told me something of a son of yours 
who was returned from the East or West In- 
dies, If you have gotten news of James or An- 
thony, it was cruel in you not to let me know ; 
as J promise you, on the sincerity of a man, 
who is weary of one world and anxious about 
another, that scarce any thing could give me so 
much pleasure as to hear of any good thing be- 
falling my honoured friend. 

If you have a minute's leisure, take up your 
pen in pity to le pauvre miserable. R. B. 



No. CXXXVI. 
TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. 



The following circumstance has, I believe, 
been omitted in the statistical account, trans- 
mitted to you, of the parish of Duuscore, in 
Nithsdale. I beg leave to send it to you, be- 
cause it is new and may be useful. How far it 
is deserving of a place in your patriotic publica- 
tion, you are the best judge. 

To store the minds of the lower classes with 
useful knowledge, is certainly of very great im- 
portance, both to them as individuals, and to 
society at large. Giving them a turn for read- 
ing and reflection, is giving them a source of 
innocent and laudable amusement ; and besides 
raises them to a more dignified degree in the 
scale of rationality. Impressed with this idea, 
a gentleman in this parish, Robert Riddel, Esq. 
of Glcnriddel, set on foot a species of circulat- 
ing liberary, on a plan so simple as to be prac- 
ticable in any corner of the country ; and so 
useful, as to deserve the notice of every country 
gentleman, who thinks the improvement of that 
part of his own species, whom chance has 
thrown into the humble walks of the peasant 
and the artizan, a matter worthy of his atten- 
tion. 

Mr. Riddel got a number of his own tenants, 
and farming neighbours, to form themselves 
into a society for the purpose of having a library 
among themselves. They entered into a legal 
engagement to abide by it for three years ; with 
a saving clause or two, in case of removal to a 
distance, or of death. Each member, at his 
entry, paid five shillings, and at each of their 
meetings, which were held every fourth Satur- 
day, sixpence more. With their entry-money, 
and the credit which they took on the faith of 
their future funds, they laid in a tolerable stock 



of books at the commencement. What authors 
they were to purchase, was a4ways decided by 
the majority. At every meeting, all the books, 
under certain fines and forfeitures, by way oi 
penalty, were to be produced ; ^nd the metn- 
bers had their choice of the volumes in rotation. 
He whose name stood, for that night, first on 
the list, had his choice of what volume he pleas- 
ed in the whole collection ; the second had his 
choice after the first ; the third after the second, 
and so on to the last. At next meeting, he who 
had been first on the list at the preceding meet 
ing, was last at this ; he who had been sec«)nd 
was first ; and so on through the whole three 
years. At the expiration of the engagement, 
the books were sold by auction, but only among 
the members themselves : and each man had his 
share of the common stock, in money or in 
books, as he chose to be a purchaser or not. 

At the breaking up of this little society, 
which was formed under Mr. Riddel's patron- 
age, what with benefactions of books from him, 
and what with their own purchases, they had 
collected together upwards of one hundted and 
fifty volumes. It will easily be guessed, that a 
good deal of trash would be bought. A.mong 
the books, however, of this little library, were 
Slair's Sermons, liobertson's Hitstiry of Scot- 
land, Hume's History of the Stuarts, the Spec- 
tato'^. Idler, Aiivenfurer, Mirror, Lounger, 
Observer, Man of Feeling, Man of the World, 
Chrgsal, Don Quixotte, Joseph Andreivs, Sfc. 
A peasant who can read, and enjoy such books, 
is certainly a much superior being to his neigh- 
bour, who perhaps stalks beside his team, very 
little rexnoved, except in shape, from the brute 
he drives. 

Wishing your patriotic exertions their so 
much merited success, I am, 
Sir, 

Your humble servant, 

A PEASANT.* 



♦ The above is extracted from the third volume of 
Sir John Sinclair's Statistics, p. 598. — It was enclosed 
to Sir John by Mr. Riddel himself in the following 
letter, also printed there : — 

" Sir John, 

" I enclose you a letter, written by Mr. Burns as an 
addition to the account of Dunscore parish. It con- 
tains an account of a small library which he was so 
good (at my desire), as to set on foot, in the barony of 
Monkland, or Friar's Carse, in this parish. As its 
utility has been felt, particularly among the younger 
class of people, I think, that if a similar plan were ei^ 
I tablished, in the different parishes of Scotland, it 
I would tend greatly to the speedy improvement of the 
I tenantry, trades people, and work people. Mr. Burns 
was so good as to take the whole charge of this small 
concern. He was treasurer, librarian, and censor to 
■ this little society, who will long have a grateful sense 
I of his public spirit and exertions for their impro\'> 
ment and information. 

" I have the honour to be. Sir John, 
I " Yours most sincerely, 

" ROBERT RIDDEL. 
To Sir Johf. Sinclair, 
i of Ulbsir', Bart. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



339 



LETTERS, 1790. 

No. CXXXVII. 
TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

Ellhland, Wth January, 1790. 

D¥AR BROTHER, 

I MEA N to take advantage of the frank, though 
I have not in tny present frame of mind much 
appetite for exertion in writing. My nerves 
are in a . . . . state. I feel that horrid 
hypochondria pervading every atom of both 
body and soul. This farm has undone my en- 
ioyment of myself. It is a ruinous affair on all 
bands. But let it go to . . . ! I'll fight it 
out and be off with it. 

We have gotten a set of very decent players 
here just now. I have seen them an evening 
or two. David Campbell, in Ayr, wrote to me 
by the manager of the company, a Mr. Suther- 
land, who is a man of apparent worth. On 
New-year-day evening I gave him the following 
prologue, which he spouted to his audience with 
applause. 

PROLOGUE. 
No song nor dance I bring from yon great 
city. 
That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the 

pity : 
Though, by the bye, abroad why will you roam ? 
Good sense and taste are natives here at home ; 
But not for panegyric I appear, 
I come to wish you all a good new year ! 
Old Father Time deputes me here before ye. 
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : 
The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade me 

say, 
" You're one year older this important day," 
If wiser too — he hinted some suggestion, 
But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the ques- 
tion ; 
And with a would-be-roguish leer and wink, 
He bade me on you press this one word — 
" THINK !" 

Yo sprightly youths, quite flush with hope 

and spirit, 
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, 
To you the dotard has a deal to say, 
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way ! 
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle, 
That the first blow is eve- half the battle ; 
That though some by thejskirt may try to snatch 

him. 
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him, 
Tliat whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, 
You may do miracles by persevering. 

Last, though not least in love, ye youthful fair, 
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care ! 
To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled 

brow, 
Aud humbly begs you'll mind the important — 



To crown your happ iness, he sa'ks y ,av eave, 
And ofiers, bliss to give and to leceive. 

For our sincere, though haply weak endea. 
vours. 
With grateful pride we own your many favours ; 
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it. 
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 



I can no more. — If once I was clear of this 
. . . farm, I should respire more at ease. 



No. CXXXVIIL 

FROM WILLIAM BURNS, 
BROTHER. 



THE POET'S 



DEAR BROTHER, Newcastle, 2.Uh Jan. 1790. 

I WROTE you about six weeks ago, and I have 
expected to hear from you every post since, but 
I suppose your excise business which you hinted 
at in your last, has prevented you from writing. 
By the bye, when and how have you got into 
the excise ; and what division have you got 
about Dumfries? These questions please an- 
swer in your next, if more important matter do 
not occur. But in the mean time let me have 
the letter to John Murdoch, which Gilbert wrote 
me you meant to send ; enclose it in your's to 
me, and let me have them as soon as possible, 
for I intend to sail for London, in a fortnight, 
or three weeks at farthest. 

You promised me when I was intending to 
go to Edinburgh, to write me some instructions 
about behaviour in companies rather above my 
station, to which I might be eventually intro- 
duced. As I may be introduced into such com- 
panies at Murdoch's, or on his account, when I 
go to London, I wish you would write me some 
such instructions now : I never had more need 
of them, for having spent little of my time in 
company of any sort since I came to Newcastle, 
I have almost forgot the common civilities of 
life. To these instructions pray add some of a 
moral kind, for though (either through the 
strength of early impressions, or the frigidity of 
my constitution), I have hitherto withstood the 
temptation to those vices, to which young fel- 
lows of my station and time of life are so much 
addicted, yet, I do not know if my virtue will 
be able to withstand the more powerful tempta- 
tions of the metropolis : yet, through God's as- 
sistance and your instructions, I hope to wea- 
ther the storm. 

Give the compliments of the season and my 
love to my sisters, and all the rest of your fa- 
mily. Tell Gilbert, the first time you write 
him, that I am well, and that I will write hir» 
either when I sail or when I arrive at London. 
I am, &c. 

W. B. 



840 



BURNS' WORKS. 



No. CXXXIX. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 25th January, 1790L 

Ir has been owing to unremitting hurry of 
business that I have not written to you, Ma 
dam, long ere now. My health is greatly bet 
ter, and I now begin once more to share in sa^ 
tisfactlon and enjoyment with the rest of my 
fellow-creatures. 

Many thanks, my much esteemed friend, for 
your kind letters ; but wly will you make me 
run the risk of being contemptible and raerce 
nary in my own eyes I When I pique myself 
nin rny independent spirit, I hope it is neither 
poetic license, nor poetic rant ; and I am so 
flattered with the honour you have done me, 
in making me your compeer in friendship and 
fi'iendly correspondence, that I cannot without 
pain, and a degree of mortification, be reminded 
of the real inequality between our situations. 

Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, dear 
Madam, in the good news of Anthony. Not 
only your anxiety about his fiite, but my own 
esteem for such a noble, warm-hearted, manly 
young fellow, in the little I had of his acquiiint- 
ance, has interested me deeply in his fortunes. 

Falconer, the unfortunate author of the Sh'ip- 
wreck, which you so much admire, is no more. 
After weathering the dreadful catastrophe he so 
feelingly describes in his poem, and after wea- 
thering many hard gales of fortune, he went to 
the botto.Ti with the Aurora frigate ! I forget 
what part of Scotland had the honour of giving 
him birth, but he was the son of obscurity and 
misfortune.* He was one of tliose daring ad- 
venturous spirits, which Scotland beycmd any 
other country is remarkable for producing. 
Little does the fond mother think, as she hangs 
delighted over the sweet little leech at her bo- 
som, where the poor fellow may hereafter wan- 
der, and what may be his fate. 1 remember a 
stanza in an old Scottish ballad, which, not- 
withstanding its rude simplicity, speaks feelingly 
to the heart . — 



* Falconer was in early life a sea-boy, to use a word 
of Shakspeare, on board a man-of-war, in which capa- 
city he attracted the notice of Campbell, the author of 
the satire on Dr. Johnson, entitled Lexiphanes, then 
purser of the ship. Campbell took him as his servant, 
and delighted in giving him instruction; and when 
Falconer afterwards acquired celebrity, boasted of him 
as his scholar. The editor had this information from 
a surgeon of a man-of-war, in 1777, who knew both 
Campbell and Falconer, and who himself perished soon 
after by shipwreck, on the coast of America. 

Though the death of Falconer happened so lately as 
1770 or 1771, yet in the biography prefixed bv Dr. An- 
derson to his works, in the complete edition of the 
Poets of Great Britain, it is said, " Of the family, 
birth-place, and education of William Falconer, there 
are no memorials." On the authority already given, 
it may be mentioned, that he was a native of one of 
the towns on the coast of Fife, and that his parents, 
who had suffered some misfortunes, reinoved to one 
)f the sea-ports of England, where they both died, 
soon after, of an epidemic fever, leaving poor Fal- 
coner, then a boy, forlorn and destitute. In conse- 
quence of which he entered on board a man-of-war. 
These last circumstances are howevsrless certain. — 
Cromek. 



" Little did my mother think, 
That day she cradled me, 
What land I was to travel in, 
Or what death I should die." 

Old Scottish soQffs are^ vou know, a favour* 
ite study and pursuit or mine ; and now I ana 
on that subject, allow me to give you two 
stanzas of another old simple ballad, which I 
am sure will please you. The catastrophe of 
the piece is a poor ruined female, lamenting 
her fate. She concludes with this pathetic 
wish : 

** O that my father had ne'er on me smiled ; 
O that my mother had ne'er to me sung ! 
O that my cradle had never been rock'd ; 
But that I had died when I was young ! 

that the gra,ve it were my bed ; 

My blankets were my winding sheet ; 
The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a* ; 
And O sae sound as I should sleep !" 

1 do not remember in all my reading to have 
met with any thing more truly the language of 
misery, than the exclamation in the last line. 
Misery is like love ; to speak its language truly, 
the author must have felt it. 

I am every day expecting the doctor to give 
your little god-son* the small-pox. They are 
rife in the country, and I tremble for his fate. 
By the way, I cannot help congratulating you 
on his looks and spirit. Every person who 
sees him, acknowledges him to be the finest, 
handsomest child he has ever seen. I am my- 
self delighted with the manly swell of his little 
chest, and a certain miniature dignity in the 
carriage of his head, and glance of his fine black 
eye, which promise the undaunted gallantry of 
an independent mind. 

I thought to have sent you some rhymes, but 
time forbids. I promise you poetry until you 
are tired of it, next time I have the honour of 
assuring you how truly I am, 8sc. 



No. CXL. 



FROM MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

28th January, 1 790. 
In some instances it is reckoned unpardonable 
to quote any one's own words ; but the value I 
have for your friendship, nothing can more truly 
or more elegantly express, than 

*' Time but the impression stronger makes, 
As streams their channels deeper wear." 

Having written to you twic^ without having 



• The bf rd's second son, Franci& 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



34. 



heard from you, t am apt to think my letters 
nave miscarried. My conjecture is only framed 
upon the chapter of accidents turning up against 
me, as it too often does, in the trivial, and I 
may with truth add, the more important affairs 
of life : but I shall continue occasionally to in- 
form you what is going on among the circle of 
your friends in these parts. In these days of 
merriment, I have frequently heard your name 
vroclaimed at the jovial board — under the roof 
of our hospitable friend at Stenhouse Mills, there 
were no 

" Lingering moments number'd with care." 

I saw your Address to the New^year in the 
Dumfries Journal. Of your productions I shall 
say nothing, but my acquaintance allege that 
when your name is mentioned, which every man 
of celebrity must know often happens, I am the 
champion, the Mendoza, against all snarling cri- 
tics, and narrow-minded reptiles, of whom a few 
on this planet do crawl. 

With best compliments to your wife, and her 
black -eyed sister, I remain, yours, &c. 



does me the honour to mention me so kindly ia 
his works, please give him my best thanks for 
the copy of his book — I shall write him, my first 
leisure hour. I like his poetry much, but I 
think his style in prose quite astonishing. 



No. CXLI. 
TO MR. PETER HILL. 

Ellisland, Feb. 2. 1790. 

No ! I will not say one word about apolo- 
gies or excuses for not writing — I am a poor, 
rascally ganger, condemned to gallop at least 
200 miles every week to inspect dirty ponds 
and yeasty barrels, and where can I find time 
to write to, or importance to interest any body ? 
The upbraidings of my conscience, nay the up- 
braidings of my wife, have persecuted me on 

your account these two or three months past 

I wish to God I was a great man, that my cor- 
respondence might throw light upon you, to 
let the world see what you really are ; and then 
I would make your fortune, without putting my 
hand in my pocket for you, which, like all other 
great men, I suppose I would avoid as much as 
possible. What are you doing, and how are you 
doing ? Have you lately seen any of my few 
friends? Whal is become of the borough 
REFORM, or how is the fate of my poor name- 
sake Mademoiselle Burns decided ? O man ! 
but for thee and thy selfish appetites, and dis- 
honest artifices, that beauteous form, and that 
once innocent and still ingenuous mind might 
have shone cons-picuous and lovely in the faith- 
ful wife, and the affectionate mother ; and shall 
the unfortunate sacrifice to thy pleasures have 
no claim on thy humanity ! 

I saw ktely in a Review, some extracts from 
a new poem, called The Village Curate ; send 
it me. I wa t likewise a cheap copy of The 
World. Mr. \rinstrong, the young poet, who 



Your book came safe, and I am going to trou- 
ble you with farther commissions. I call it 
troubling you — because I want only, books ; 
the cheapest way, the best ; so you may have 
to hunt for them in the evening auctions. I 
want Smollett's Works, for the sake of his in- 
comparable humour. I have already Roderick 

Random, and Humphrey Clinker Peregrine 

Pickle, Launcelot Greaves, and Frederick, Count 
Fathom, I still want ; but as I said, the veriest 
ordinary copies will serve me. I am nice only 
in the appearance of my poets. I forget the 
price of Cowper's Poems, but, I believe, I must 
have them. I saw the other day, proposals for 
a publication, entitled, " Banks's new and com- 
plet Christian's Family Bible," printed for C. 
Cooke, Paternoster- row, London. — He promises 
at least, to give in the work, I think it is three 
hundred and odd engravings, to which he has 
put the names of the first arti>;ts in London.*— 
You will know the character of the performance, 
as some numbers of it are published ; and if it 
is really what it pretends to be, set me down 
as a subscriber, and send me the published 
numbers. 

Let me hear from you, your first leisure mi- 
nute, and trust me, you shall in future have no 
reason to complain of my silence. The dazzling 
perplexity of novelty will dissipate and leave me 
to pursue my course in the quiet path of me- 
thodical routine. 



No. CXLII. 

TO MR. W. NICOLL. 

MY DEAR SIR, ElUsland, Feb. 9, 1790. 

That d-mned mare of yours is dead. 1 
would freely have given her price to have saved 



* Perhaps no set of men more effectually avail them- 
selves of the easy credu'ityof the public,' thin a cer. 
tain description of Paternoster-row booksellers. Three 
hundred and odd e!lg^a^■illg^ !— and by thejimt a'tisU 
in London, too! No wonder that Burns was dazzled 
by the splendour of the promise. It is no unusual 
thing for this class of impostors to ii.lustrate the Hoti, 
Scriptures by plates oriyiually engraved for the His- 
tory of England, and 1 have actually seen subjects de- 
signed by our celebrated artist Stothard, irom' Clarissa 
Harlowe and the Novelist's Magazine, converted, with 
incredible dexterity, by thes* Bookselling-Breslaws. 
into Scriptural embellishments ! One of these vendeii 
of ' Family Bibles' lately called on me, to consult me 
professionally, about a folio engraving he brought 
with him.— It represented MoNs. Boffon, seated, 
contemplating various groups of animals that sur- 
rounded him : He merely wjshed, he said, to be in 
formed, whether by uncloathing the Naturalist, ana 



342 



BURNS WORKS. 



her : she has vexed me heyond description. In- 
debted as I was to your goodness beyond what 
I can ever repay, I eagerly grasped at your of- 
fer to have the mare with me. That I might 
at least shew my readiness in wishing to be 
grateful, I took every care of her in my power, 
She was never crossed for riding above half a 
score of times by me or in my keeping. I drew 
her in the plough, one of three, for one poor 
week. I refused fifty-five shillings for her, which 
was tbe highest bode I could squeeze for her. 
I fed her up and had her in fine order for Dum- 
*'ies fair ; when four or five days before the fair, 
»oe was seized with an unaccountable disorder 
in the sinews, or somewhere in the bones of the 
neck ; with a weakness or total want of power 
in her fillets, and in short the whole vertebrae 
of her spine seemed to be diseased and unhinged, 
and in eight and forty hours, in spite of the two 
best farriers in the country, she died and be 
d-mned to her ! The farriers said that she had 
been quite strained in the fillets beyond cure be- 
fore you had bought her, and that the poor de- 
vil, though she might keep a little flesh, had 
been jaded and quite worn out with fatigue and 
oppression. While she was with me, she was 
ander my own eye, and I assure you, my much 
valued friend, every thing was done for her that, 
could be done ; and the accident has vexed me 
to the heart. In fact I could not pluck up spi- 
rits to write you, on account of the unfortunate 
business. 

There is little new in this country. Our the- 
atrical company, of which you must have heard, 
leave us in a week. Their merit and character 
are indeed very great, both on the stage and in 
private life j not a worthless creature among 
them ; and their encouragement has been ac- 
cordingly. Their usual run is from eighteen 
to twenty-five pounds a night ; seldom less than 
the one, and the house will hold no more than 
the other. There have been repeated instances 
of sending away six, and eight, and ten pounds 
in a night for want of room. A new theatre is 
to be built by subscription ; the first stone is to 
be laid on Friday first to come. * Three hun- 
dred guineas have been raised by thirty subscri- 
bers, and thirty more might have been got if 
wanted. The manager, ^Ir. Sutherland, was 
introduced to me by a friend from Ayr ; and a 
worthier or cleverer fellow I have rarely met 
with. Some of our clergy have slipt in by 
stealth now and then ; but they have got up a 
farce of their own. You must have heard how 
the Rev. Mr. Lawson of Kirkmahoe, seconded 
by the Rev. Mr. Kirkpatrick of Dunscore, 
and the rest of that faction, have accused in for- 
mal process, the unfortunate and Rev. Mr. He- 
ron of Kirkgunzeon, that in ordaining Mr. 
Nelson to the cure of souls in Kirkbean, he, 
the said Heron, feloniously and treasonably 



bound the said Nelson to the confession of faitla, 
so far as it was agreeable to reason and the 
word of God ! 

Mrs. B. begs to be remembered most grate- 
fully to you. Little Bobby arid Frank are 
charmingly well and healthy. I am jaded to 
death with fatigue. For these two or three 
months, on an average, I have not ridden less 
than two hundred miles per week. I have 
done little in the poetic way. I have given Mr. 
Sutherland two Prologues ; one of which was 
delivered last week. I have likewise strung 
four or five barbarous stanzas, to the tune of 
Chevy Chase, by way of Elegy on your poor un- 
fortunate mare, beginning, — 

" Peg Nicholson was a good Bay-mare," — 
{seep. 77.) 

My best compliments to Mrs. Nicoll, and lit- 
tle Neddy, and all the family. I hope Ned ia 
a good scholar, and will come out to gather nuti 
and apples with me next harvest. 



gfiving him a rather more resolute\ook, the plate could 
not, at a trifling expense, be made to pass for •' Da. 

NIEL IN THE LlONS' DEN !" — CROMEK. 

* On Friday Jirst to come— a. Seotticisna. 



No. CXLIII 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

ElUsland, I3th February, 1790. 
I BEG your pardon, my dear and much valued 
friend, for writing to you on this very unfashion- 
able, unsightly sheet — 

" My poverty but not my will consents." 

But to make amends, since of modish post I 
have none, except one poor wiiiowcd half sheet 
of gilt, which lies in my drawer among my ple- 
beian foolscap pages, like the widow of a man 
of fashion, whom that unpolite scoundrel, Ne- 

sity, has driven from Burgundy and Pine- 
apple, to a dish of Bohea, with the scandal- 
bearing help-mate of a village priest ; or a glass 
of whisky-toddy, with the ruby-nosed yoke- 
fellow of a foot-padding exciseman — I make a 
vow to enclose this sheet-full of epistolary frag- 
ments in that my only scrap of gilt-paper. 

I am indeed your unworthy debtor for three 
friendly letters. I ought to have written to you 
long ere now, but it is a literal fact, I have 
scarcely a spare moment. It is not that I will 
not write to you ; Miss Burnet is not more de&r 
to her guardian angel, nor his grace the Duke 

of to the powers of -, than my 

friend Cunningham to me. It is not that I 
cannot write to you ; should you doubt it, take 
the following fragment which was intended for 
you some time ago, and be convinced tliat I can 
antithesize sentiment, and circumvolute periods, 
as well as any coiner o' phrase in the regions o/ 
philology 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



343 



ifT DEAR CUNNINGHAM, December, 1789. 

Where are you? And wliat are you doing? 
Can you be that son of levity, who takes up a 
friendship as he takes up a fashion ; or are you, 
like some ather of the worthiest fellows in the 
world, the victim of indolence, laden with fetters 
of ever-increasing weight. 

What strange beings we are I Since we have 
a portion of conscious existence, equally capable 
of enjoying pleasure, happiness, and rapture, or 
of suffering pain, wretchedness, and misery, it 
> surely worthy of an inquiry, whether there 
DC not such a thing as a science of life ; whether 
method, economy, and fertility of expedients be 
not applicable to enjoyment ; and whether there 
be not a want of dexterity in pleasure, which 
renders our little scantling of happiness still 
less ; and a profuseness, an intoxication in bliss 
which leads to satiety, disgust, and self-abhor- 
rence. There is not a doubt but that health, 
talents, character, decent competency, respecta- 
ble friends, are real substantial blessings ; and 
yet do we not daily see those who enjoy many 
or all of these good things, contrive, notwith- 
standing, to be as unhappy as others to whose 
lot few of them have fallen. I believe one great 
source of this mistake or misconduct is owing 
to a certam stimulus, with us called ambition, 
which goads us up the hill of life, not as we 
ascend other eminences, for the laudable curio- 
sity of viewing au extended landscape, but ra- 
ther for the dishonest pride of looking down on 
others of our fellow-creatures, seemingly dimi- 
nutive, in humble stations, &c. &c. 



Sunday, \ith February, 1790. 
God help me ! I am now obliged to join 

" Night to day, and Sunday to the week." 

If there be any truth in the orthodox faith of 

these churches, I am past redemption, 

and what is worse, • to all eternity. I 

am deeply read in JBoston's Fourfold State, 
Marshall on Sanctijication, Gutherie's Trial of 
a Saving Interest, Sfc. but " There is no balm 
in Gilead, there is no ph-ysician there," for me ; 
so I shall e' en turn Arminian, and trust to 
" Sincere, though imperfect obedience." 



Tuesday, I6th. 
Luckily for me I was prevented from the 
discussion of the knotty point at which I had 
lust made a full stop. All my fears and cares 
are of this world : if there is another, an honest 
man has nothing to fear from it. I hate a man 
that wishes to be a Deist, but I fear, every fair, 
unprejudiced inquirer must in some degree be a, 
sceptic. It is not that there are any very stag- 
gering arguments against the immortaiitv of 



man ; but like electricity, phlogiston, &c. th« 
subject is so involved in darkness, that we want 
data to go upon. One thing frightens me much ; 
that we are to live for ever, seems too good news 
to be true. That we are to enter into a new 
scene of existence, where, exempt from want 
and pain, we shall enjoy ourselves and our friends 
witliout satiety or separation — how much should 
I be indebted to any one who could fully assure 
me that this was certain ! 



My time is once more expired. I will write 
to Mr. Cleghoric soon. Gcd bless him and all 
his concerns ! Ana may all tht' powers that pre- 
side over conviviality and friendship, be present 
with all their kindest influence, when the bearer 
of this, Mr. Syme, and you meet ! I wish I 
could also make one. — I think we should be . 

Finally, brethren, farewell ! WhatBoever 
things are lovely, whatsoever things are gentle, 
whatsoever things are charitable, whatsoever 
things are kind, think on these things, and 
think on ROBERT BURNS. 



No. CXLIV 
TO MR. PETER HILL. 

El/island, 2d March, 1790. 

At a late meeting of the Monkland Friendly 
Society, it was resolved to augment their libra- 
ry by the following books, which you are to 
send us as soon as possible : — 2'he Mirror, The 
Lounger, Man of Feeling, Man of the World, 
(these for my own sake I wish to have by th< 
first carrier) Knox's History of the Jieforma- 
tion ; Hae's Histry of the Rebellion in 17I.t/ 
any good History if the Rebellion in 1745 
A Display of the Secession Act and Testimry 
ny, by Mr. Gibb ; Hervey's Meditations ; Be 
veridge's Thoughts ; and another copy of Wm 
son's Body of Divinity. 

I wrote to Mr. A. Masterton three or four 
months ago, to pay some mooey he cwed ir»r, 
into your hands, and lately I wote to you <^ 
the same purpose, but I lidye heird fr^m nei- 
ther one nor ot^er of you. 

In addition to the hijol-.s a confmissioned in 
my last, I want very ir.jch, A'-i Index to the 
Excise Laws, or an abridr^nipnt of all the Sta- 
tutes now in fur'-i, relative to the Excise, by 
Jellinger Symcas ; I want three copies of this 
book ; [f it Is now to be had, cheap or dear, get 
it for n^a. Aa honest country neighbour of 
mir.^ 'vacts. toe, A Family Bible, the larger 
the be-ter, but second -handed, for he does not 
Ciiofise tt give above ten shillrngs for the booK. 
Z want likewise for myself, as you can pick 
tiieit. up, second-handed o* cheap, copies o; 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Ottcays Dramafk Woi%s, Pen Jonsnn's, 
Dri/den's Cvnc/reve's^ Wi/c/ie.rl«i/\<t, Vanhrugh* s, 
CUiher's, or any Dramatic Works of the more 
•nodein — Macklin, Gnrrick, Foote, Colman, or 
Sheridan. A good copy too of Muliere, in 
French, I mucli want. Any other good dra- 
matic authors in that language I want also ; 
but comic authors chiefly, though I should wish 
to have Racine, Corneille, and Voltaire too. 
I am in no hurry for all, or any of these, but if 
you accidentally meet with fhem very cheap, 
get them for me. 

And now, to quit the dry walk of business, 
how do you do, my dear friend ? and how is 
Mrs. Hill ? 1 trust if now and then not so ele- 
gantly handsome, at least as amiable, and sings 
as divinely as ever. My good- wife too has a 
charming " wood-note wild ;" now could we 
four 



I am out of all patience with this vile world, 
for one thing. Mankind are by nature benevo- 
Wt creatures ; except in a few scoundrelly in- 
stances, I do not think that avarice of the good 
things we chance to have, is born with us ; but 
we are placed here amid so much nakedness, and 
hunger, and poverty, and want, that we are un- 
der a cursed necessity of studying selfishness, in 
order that we may exist ! Still there are, in 
every age, a few souls, that all the wants and 
woes of life cannot debase to selfishness, or even 
to the necessary alloy of caution and prudence. 
If ever I am in danger of vanity, it is when I 
contemplate myself on this side of ray disposi- 
tion aud character. God knows I am no saint; 
I have a whole host of follies and sius to answer 
for ; but if I could, and I believe I do it as far 
as I can, I would wipe away all tears from all 
eyes. Adieu ! 



No. CXLV. 

FROM WILLIAM BURNS, 
BROTHER. 



THE POET'S 



London, 21s< March, 1790. 

DEAR BROTHER, 

1 fAVE been here three weeks come Tuesday, 
anil would have written you sooner, but was not 
settled in a place of work. — We were ten days 
on our passage from Shields ; the weather being 
cairn I was not sick, except one day when it 
blew pretty hard. I got into work the Friday 
after I came to town, I wrought there only 
eight days, their job being done. I got work 
again in a shop in the Strand, the next day af- 
ter I left ray former master. It is only a tem- 
porary place, but I expect to be settled soon in 
a shop to my mind, although it will be a harder 
task than I at first imagined, fur there are such 



swarms of fresh hards just come from the coua« 
try that the town is quite overstocked, and ex- 
cept one is a particularly good workman, (which 
you know I am not, nor I am afraid ever will 
be), it is hard to get a place : However, I don't 
yet despair to bring up my lee-way, and shal'i 
endeavour if possible to sail within three or four 
poiuts of the wind. The encouragement here ia 
not what I expected, wages being very low in 
proportion to the expense of living, but yet, if I 
can only lay by the money that is spent by 
others in my situation in dissipation and riot, I 
expect soon to return you the money I borrowed 
of you and live comfortably besides. 

In the mean time I wish you would send up 
all my best linen shirts to London, which you 
may easily do by sending them to some of your 
Edinburgh friends, to be shipped from Leith. 
Some of them are too little ; don't send any but 
what are good, and I wish one of my sisters 
could find as much time as to trim my shirts at 
the breast, for there is no such thing to be seen 
here as a plain shirt, even for wearing, which is 
what I want these for. I mean to get one or 
two new shirts here for Sundays, but I assure 
you that linen here is a very expensive article. 
I am going to write to Gilbert to send me an 
Ayrshire cheese ; if he can spare it he will send 
it to you, and you may send it with the shirts, 
but I expect to hear from you before that time. 
The cheese I could get here ; but I will have a 
pride in eating Ayrshire cheese in London, and 
the expense of sending it will be little, as you 
are sending the shirts any how. 

I write this by J. Stevenson, in his lodgings, 
while he is wiiting to Gilbert. He is well and 
hearty, which is a blessing to me as well as to 
him : We were at Covent Garden chapel this 
forenoon, to hear the Ca//" preach ; he is grown 
very fat, and is as boisterous as ever.* There 
is a whole colony of Kilmarnock people here, so 
we don't want for acquaintance. 

Remember me to my sisters and all the fa- 
mily. I shall give you all the observations I 
have made on London in my next, when I shall 
hav*. sc«n more of it. 

I am, dear Brother, yours, &c. 

W. B. 



No. CXLVL 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



ElUsland, Wth Jpril, r/90. 
I HAVE just now, my ever-honoured frienrt 
enjoyed a very high luxury, in reading a papei 
of the Lounger. You know my national pre- 
judices. I had often read and admired the Spec- 
tator, Adventurer, Rambler, and World; but 
still with a certain regret, that they were sc 

t : ___ , 

• Pi(£« PoeUcal Address to the Calt 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



345 



thot ouglily and entirely English. Alas ! tave I 
often said to myself, what are all the boasted ad- 
vantages which my country reaps from the 
Union, that can counterbalance the annihilation 
of her independence, and even her very name ! 
I often repeat that couplet of my favourite poet, 
Goldsmith — 

" States of native liberty possest, 

Though very poor, may yet be very blest." 

Nothing can reconcile me to the common 
terms, " English ambassador, English court,** 
&c. And I am out of all patience to see that 
equivocal character, Hastings, impeached by 
" the Commons of England," Tell me, my 
friend, is this weak prejudice? I believe in my 
conscience such ideas, as, " my country ; her 
independence ; her honour ; the illustrious 
names that mark the history of my native 
land," &c. — I believe these, among your men of 
the world — men who in fact guide for the most 
part and govern our world, are looked on as so 
many modifications of wrotigheiidedness. They 
know the use of bawling out such terms, to 
rouse or lead the rabrlk ; hut for their own 
private use, with almost all the a!;Ie statesmen 
that ever existed, or now exist, when they talk 
of right and wrong, they only mean proper and 
improper ; and their measure of conduct is, not 
what they ought, but what they dare. For 
the truth of this I shall not ransack the history 
of nations, but appeal to one of the ablest judges 
of men, and himself one of the ablest men that 
ever lived — the celebrated Earl of Chesterfield. 
In fact, a man who could thoroughly controul 
his vices \^'henever they interfered with his in- 
terest, and who could completely put on the ap- 
pearance of every virtue as often as it suited his 
purposes, is, on the Stanhopian plan, the perfect 
man ,- a man to lead nations. But are great 
abilities, complete without a flaw, and polished 
without a blemish, the standard of human ex- 
cellence ? This is certainly the staunch opinion 
of ?/iera of the world ; but I call on honour, vir- 
tue, and worth, to give the Stygian doctrine a 
loud negative ! However, this must be allowed, 
that, if you abstract from man the idea of an 
existence beyond the grave, then, the true mea- 
sure of human conduct \% proper B.nd improper: 
Virtue and vice, as dispositions of the heart, are 
in that case, of scarcely the import and value to 
the world at large, as harmony and discord in 
the modifications of sound ; and a delicate sense 
of honour, like a nice ear for music, though it 
may sometimes give the possessor an ecstasy un- 
known \.o the coarser organs of the herd, yet, 
considering the harsh gratings, and inharmonic 
jars, in this ill-tuned state of being, it is odds! 
but the individual would be as happy, and cer- I 
tainly would be as much respected by the true 
judges of society, as it would then stand, with- 
out either a good ear or a good heart. 

You must know I have just met with the 
Mirror and J ounger for the first time, and I 



am quite in raptures with them : I should be 
glad to have your opinion of some of the papers. 
The one I have just read. Lounger, No. 61, 
has cost me more honest tears than any thing 
I have read of a long time. IM'KenzIe has beeu 
called the Addison of the Scots, and in my 
opinion, Addison would not be hurt at the com- 
parison. If he has not Addison's exquisite hu- 
mour, he as certainly outdoes him in the tender 
and the pathetic. His Man of Feeling (but I 
am not counsel-learned in the laws of criticism), 
I estimate as the first performance in its kind 1 
ever saw. From what books, moral or even 
pious, will the susceptible young mind receive 
impressions more congenial to humaoity and 
kindness, generosity and benevolence ; in short, 
more of all that ennobles the soul to herself, or 
endears her to others — than from the simple af- 
fecting tale of poor Hai ley. 

Still, with all my admiration of M'KenzIe's 
writings, I do not know if they are the fittest 
reading for a young man who is about to set 
out, as the phrase is, to make his way into life. 
Do not you think, Madam, that among the few 
favoured of Heaven in the structure of their 
minds (for such there certainly are), there may 
be a purity, a tenderness, a dignity, an elegance 
of soul, which are of no use, nay, in some de- 
gree, absolutety disqualifying for the truly im- 
portant business of making a man's way into 
life. If I am not much mistaken, my gallant 

young friend, A , is very much under 

these disqualifications ; and for the young fe- 
males of a family I could mention, well may 
they excite parental solicitude, for I, a common 
acquaintance, or as my vanity will have it, an 
humble friend, have often trembled for a turn of 
mind which may render them eminently happy 
— or peculiarly miserable ! 

I have been manufacturing some verses late- 
ly ; but as I have got the most hurried season 
of excise business over, I hope to have more lei- 
sure to transcribe any thing that may show how 
much I have the honour to be. Madam, yours, 
&c. 



No. CXLVII. 
FROM MR. CUNNINGHAIM. 

Edinburgh, 25th Mag, 1790. 

MY DEAR BURNS, 

I AM much indebted to you for your last 
friendly, elegant epistle, and it shall make a 
part of the vanity of mg composition, to retain 
your correspondence through life. It was re- 
markable your introducing the name of Misa 
Burnet, at a time when she was In such ill 
health ; and I am sure it will grieve your gen- 
tle heart, to hear of her being in the last stage 
of a consumption. Alas ! that so much beauty, 
innocence, and virtue, should be nipt In the 
V9 



346 



BURNS' WORKS. 



bud. Hers was the smile of cheerfulness — of 
sensibility, not of allurement ; and her elegance 
of manners corresponded with the purity and 
elevation of her mind. 

How does your friendly muse ? I am sure 
she still retains her affection for you, and that 
you have many of her favours in your posses- 
sion, which I have not seen. I weary much to 
hear from you. 



I beseech you do not forget me. 



I most sincerely hope all your concerns in 
life prosper, and that your roof tree enjoys the 
blessing of good health. All your friends here 
are well, among whom, and not the least, is your 
acquaintance, Cleghorn. As for myself, I am 

well, as far as will let a 

man be ; but with these I am happy. 



When you meet with my very agreeable friend 
J. Syme, give him for me a hearty squeeze, and 
bid, God bless him. 

Is there any probability of your being soon In 
Edinburgh ? 



No. CXLVIII. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

Dumfries, Excise- Office, l^th July, 1790. 

SIR, 

Coming into town this morning, to attend 
my duly in this office, it being collection-day, I 
met with a gentleman who tells nie he is on his 
way to London ; so I take the opportunity of 
writing to you, as franking is at present under 
a temporary death. I shall have some snatches 
of leisure through the day, amid our horrid bu- 
siness and bustle, and I shall improve them as 
well as I can ; but let my letter be as stupid as 
, as miscellaneous as a news- 
piper, as short as a hungry grace-before-meat, 
or as long as a law-paper in the Douglas' cause 
as ill-spelt as country John's billet-doux, or as 
unsightly a scrawl as Betty Byremucker's an- 



swer to it ; 1 hope, considering circumstances. 



you will forgive it ; and as it will put you to no 
expense of postage, I shall have the less reflec- 
tion about it. 

I am sadly ungrateful in not returning you 
my thanks for your most valuabL; present, Ze- 
luco. In fact, you are in some degree blameable 
for my neglect. You were pleased to express a 
wish for my opinion of the work, which so flat- 
tered me, that nothing less would serve my 
over-weening fancy, than a formal criticism on 



the book. In fact, I have gravely planned a 
comparative view of you. Fielding, .Richardson, 
and Smollett, in your different qualities and me- 
jits as novel-writers. This, I own, betrays my 
ridiculous vanity, and I may probably never 
bring the business to bear ; but I am fond of 
the spirit young Elihu shows in the book of 
Job — " And I said, I will also declare my opi- 
nion." I have quite disfigured my copy of the 
book with my annotations. I never take it up 
without at the same time taking my pencil, 
and marking with asterisks, parenthesis, &c. 
wherever I meet with an original thought, a 
nervous remark on life and manners, a remark- 
ably well-turned period, or a character sketched 
with uncommon precision. 

Though I shall hardly think of fairly writing 
out my " Comparative View," I shall certainly 
trouble you with my remarks, such as they are. 
I have just received from my gentleman, that 
horrid summons in the book of Revelations — 
" That time shall be no more !" 

The little collection of sonnets have some 
charming poetry in them. If indeed I am in- 
debted to the fair author for the book, and not, 
as I rather suspect, to a celebrated author of 
the other sex, I should certainly have written to 
the lady, with my grateful acknowledgments, 
and my own ideas of the comparative excellence 
of her pieces. I would do this last, not from 
any vanity of thinking that my remarks could 
be of much consequence to Mrs. Smith, but 
merely from my own feelings as an author, do- 
ing as I would be done by. 



Vo. CXLIX. 
TO MR. MURDOCH, 

TEACHER OF FRENCH, LONDON. 



MY DEAR SIR, ElUsland, July 16, 1790. 

I RECEIVED a letter from you a long time 
ago, but unfortunately as it was in the time ol 
my peregrinations and journeyings through Scot- 
land, I mislaid or lost it, and by consequence 
your direction along with it. Luckily my good 
star bi'ought me acquainted with Mr. Kennedy, 
who, I understand, is an acquaintance of yours : 
and by his means and mediation I hope to re- 
place that link which my unfortunate negli- 
gence had so unluckily broke in the chain of 
our correspondence. I was the more vexed at 
the vile accident, as my brother William, a jour- 
neyman saddler, has been for some time in Lon- 
don ; and wished above all things for your di- 
rection, that he might have paid his respects to 

his father's FRIEND. 

His last address he sent me was, " Wm. 
Burns, at Mr. Barber's, Saddler, No, 181, 
Strand " I write him by Mr. Kennedy, but 
neglected t:^ ask him for your address ; so, if you 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



347 



Snd a spare half minute, please let my brother 
know by a card where and when he will find 
you, and the poor fellow will joyfully wait on 
you, as one of the few surviving friends of the 
man whose name, and Christian name too, he 
has the honou-* to bear. 

The next atter I write you shall be a long 
one. I have much to tell you of " hair-breadth 
"scapes in th' imminent deadly breach, with 
all the eventful history of a life, the early years 
of which owed so much to your kind tutorage ; 
but this at an hour of leisure. My kindest 
compliments to Mrs. Murdoch and family. 
I am ever, my dear Sir, 

Your obliged friend.* 



* J his letter was comrnunicated to the Editor by a 
gentleman to whose liberal advice and information he 
IS much indebted, Mr. John Murdoch, the early in- 
structor of the poet ; accompanied by the following 
interesting note : — 

London, Hart-Street, Bloomsbury, 28th Dec. 1807. 

DEAR SIR, 

The following letter, which I lately found among 
my papers, I copy for your perusal, partly because it 
is Burns's, partly because it makes honourable men- 
tion of my rational Christian friend, his father ; and 
likewise because it is rather flattering to myself. I 
glory in no one thing so much as an intimacy with 
good men ;— the friendship of others reflects no ho- 
nour. When I recollect the pleasure, (and I hope be- 
nefit), I received from the conversation of William 
Burns, especially when on the Lord's day we walked 
together for about two miles, to the house of prayer, 
there publicly to adore and praise the Giver of all 
good, I entertain an ardent hope, that together we shall 
" renew the glorious theme in distant worlds," with 
powers more adequate to the mighty subject, the ex- 
uberant BENEFICENCE OF THE GREAT CREATOR. 

But to the letter :— 

FROM MR. MURDOCH TO THE BARD, 

GIVING HIM AN ACCOUNT OF THE DEATH OF 
HIS BROTHER WILLIAM. 

Hart-Street, B'oomsbury-Sqvare, London, 

MV DEARFRIEND, Sept. \'itk, 1790. 

Yours of the 16th of July, 1 received on tlie 26th, 
in th- afternoon, per favour of my friend Mr. Ken- 
nedy, and at the same time was informed that your 
brother was ill. Being engaged in business till late 
that evening, I set out next morning to see him, and 
had thought of three or four medical gentlemen of my 
acquaintance, to one or other of whom 1 might apply 
for advice, provided it should be necessary. But when 
I went to Mr. Barber's, to my great astonishment and 
heart-felt grief, I found that my young friend had, on 
Saturday, bia an everlasting farewell to all sublunary 
things.— It was about a fortnight before that he had 
fouiid me out, by Mr. Stevenson's accidentally calling 
at my shop to buy something. We had only one in- 
terview, and that was highly entertaining to me in se- 
veral respects. He mentioned some instruction 1 had 
given him when very young, to which he said he 
owed, in a great measure, the philanthropy he posses- 
sed. He also took notice of my exhorting you all, 

when I wrote, about eight years ago, to the man who, 
of all mankind that I ever knew, stood highest in my 
esteem, " not to let go your integrity." — You may ea- 
sily conceive that such conversation was both pleasing 
and encouraging to me : I anticipated a deal of ratio. 
nal happiness from future conversations. — Vain are our 
expectations anu jiopes. They are so almost always — 
Perhaps, (nay, certainly), for our good. Were it not 
for disappointed hopes we could hardly spend a thought 
on another state of existence, or be in any degree re- 
conciled to the quitting of this. _ « 
I know of no one source of consolation to those who , 
have lost young relatives, equal to that of their being 
«f a good disposition, and of a promising character, j 



No. CL. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

DEAR MADAM, Qth August, 1790. 

After a long day's toil, plague, and care, 1 
sit down to write to you. Ask me uot why ] 
have delayed it so long ? It was owing to hurry, 
indolence, and fifty other things ; in short, to 
any thing — but forgetfulness of la plus aimable 
de son sexe. By the bye, you are indebted your 
best courtesy to me for this last compliment ; 
as I pay it from sincere conviction of its truth 
— a quality rather rare in compliments of these 
grinning, bowing, scraping times. 

Well, I hope writing to yo?i, will ease a little 
my troubled soul. Sorely has it been bruised 
to-day ! A ci-devant friend of mine, and an in- 
timate acqaintance of yours, has given my feel- 
ings a wound that I perceive will gangrene dan- 
gerously ere it cure. He has wounded my pride ! 



Be assured, my dear friend, that I cordially sympa. 
thize with you all, and particularly with Mrs. W. 
Burns, who is undoubtedly one of the most tender and 
affectionate mothers that ever lived. Remember me 
to her in the most friendly manner, when you see her, 
or write.-T-Please present my best compliments to Mrs. 
R. Burns, and to your brother and sisters. — There is 
no occasion for me to exhort you to filial duty, and 
to use your united endeavours in rendering the even- 
ing of life as comfortable as possible to a mother, who 
has dedicated so great a part of it in promoting your 
temporal and spiritual welfare. 

Your letter to Dr. Moore, I delivered at his house, 
and shall most likely know your opinion of Zeleuco, 
the first time I meet with him. 1 wish and hope for 
a long letter. Be particular about your mother's 
health. I hope she is too much a Christian to be af- 
flicted above measure, or to sorrow as those who have 
no hope. 

One of the most pleasing hopes I have is to visit 
you all ; but I am commonly disappointed in what I 
most ardently wish for. 

I am, dear Sir, 

Yours sincerely, 

JOHN MURDOCH. 

I promised myself a deal of happiness in the con- 
versation of my dear young friend ; but my promises 
of this nature generally prove fallacious. Two visits 
were the utmost that 1 received. At one of them, 
however, he repeated a lesson which I had given him 
about twentv years before, when he was a mere child, 
concerning the pity and tenderness due to animals. 
To that lesson, (which it seems was brought to the le- 
vel of his capacity), he declared himself indebted for 
almost all the philanthropy he possrssed 

Let not parents and teachers imagine that it is need- 
less to talk seriously to children. They are sooner fit 
to be reasoned with than is generally thought. Strong 
and indelible impressions are to be made before the 
mind be agitated and ruffled by the numerous train of 
distracting cares and unruly passions, whereby it is 
frequently rendered almost unsusceptible of the prin- 
ciples and precepts of rational religion and sound mo- 
rality. 

But I find myself digressing again. Poor William ' 
then in the bloom and vigour of youth, caught a pu 
trid fever, and, in a few days, as real chief mournetj 
I followed his remains to the land of forgetfulness. 

JO FN MURDOCH. 



Cbomek 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Uo. CLI. 



TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

ElUsland, 8th August, 1790. 

Forgive me my once dear, and ever dear 
friend, my seeming negligence. You cannot 
sit down, and fancy the busy life I lead. 

I laid down my goose feather to beat my 
brains for an apt simile, and had some thoughts 
of a country grannara at a family christening : 
a bride on the market-day before her marriage ; 



a tavern-keeper at an election dinner ; &c. &c. 
—but the resemblance that hits my fancy best 
is, that blackguard miscreant, Satan, who roams 
about like a roaring lion, seeking, searching 
whom he may devour. However, tossed about 
as I am, if I choose (and who would not choose) 
to bind down with the crampets of attention, 
the brazen foundation of integrity, I may rear 
up the superstructure of Independence, and from 
its daring turrets, bid defiance to the storms of 
fate. And is not this a " consummation de- 
voutly to be wished ?" 

" Thy spirit, Independence, let me share ; 

Lord of the lion- heart, and eagle -eye ! 
Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare, 

Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky '" 

Are not these noble verses ? They are the in- 
troduction of Smollett'' s Ode to Independence : 
If you have not seen the poem, I will send it to 
you. How wretched is the man that hangs on 
by the favours of the great. To shrink from 
every dignity of man, at the approach of a lord- 
y piece ot self-consequence, who, amid all his 
tinsel glitter, and stately hauteur, is but a crea- 
ture formed as thou art— and perhaps not so 
well formed as thou art — came into the world 
a puling infant as thou didst, and must go out 
of it as all men must, a naked corse*. 



No. CLII. 

• FROM DR. BLACKLOCK. 

Edinburgh, \st September, 1790. 
How does my dear friend ? — much I languish 

to hear. 
His fortune, relations, and all that are dear ; 



• The preceding letter explains the feelings under 
which this was written. The strain of indignant in- 
vective goes on some time longer in the slyle which 
our bard was too apt to indulge, and of which the 
iKider has already seen somuch. 



With love of the Muses so strongly still smitten, 

I meant this epistle in verse to have written ; 

But from age and infirmity, indolence flows, 

And this, much I fear, will restore me to prose 

Anon to my business I wish to proceed. 

Dr. Anderson guides and provokes me to speed, 

A man of integrity, genius and worth. 

Who soon a performance intends to set forth ; 

A work miscellaneous, extensive, and free. 

Which will weekly appear, by the name of the 

Bee. 
Of this from himself I enclose you a plan, 
And hope you will give what assistance you can 
Entangled with business, and haunted with care, 
In which more or less human nature must share, 
Some moments of leisure the Muses will claim, 
A sacrifice due to amusement and fame. 
The Bee, which sucks honey from ev'ry gay 

bloom. 
With some rays of your genius her work may 

illume. 
Whilst the flower whence her honey spontane- 
ously flows. 
As fragrantly smells, and as vig'rously grows. 

Now with kind gratulations 'tis time to con- 
clude, 

And add, your promotion is here understood ; 

Thus free from the servile employ of excise, Sir, 

We hope soon to hear you commence supervisor ; 

You then more at leisure, and free from control, 

May indulge the strong passion that reigns in 
your soul. 

But I, feeble I, must to nature give way ; 

Devoted cold death's and longevity's prey. 

From verses tho' languid my thoughts must un- 
bend, 

Tho' still I remain your affectionate friend, 
THO. BLACKLOCK, 



No. CLIIt 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER 

FROM MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Edinburgh, Mth October, 1790. 

I LATELY received a letter from our friemi 

B , — what a charming fellow lost to 

society — born to great expectations — with su- 
perior abilities, a pure heart and untainted mo- 
rals, his fate in life has been hard indeed — still 
I am persuaded he is happy ; not like the gal- 
lant, the gay Lothario, but in the simplicity of 
rural enjoyment, unmixed with regret at the re- 
membrance of " the days of other years." 

I saw Mr. Dunbar put, under the cover of 
your newspaper, Mr. Wood's Poem on Thom- 
son. This poem has suggested an idea to me 
which you alone are capable to execute : — a 
song adapted to each season of the year. The 
task is difficult, but the theme is ciarmim^' 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



•hould you succeed, I wi\l undertake to get new- 
music worthy of the subject. What a fine field 
for your imagination, and who is there alive can 
draw so many beauties from Nature and pastoral 
imagery as yourself? It is, by the way, sur- 
prising that there does not exist, so far as I 
know, a proper song for each season. Wt \dve 
songs on hunting, fishing, skaiting, and one au- 
tumnal song. Harvest Home. As your muse 
is neither spavied nor rusty, you may mount 
the hill of Parnassus, and return with a sonnet 
in your pocket for every season. For my sug- 
gestions, if I be rude, correct me ; if imperti- 
nent, chastise me ; if presuming, despise me. 
But if you blend all my. weaknesses, and pound 
out one grain of insincerity, then am I not 
thy 

Faithful friend, &c. 



No. CLIV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

November, 1790. 

" As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good 
news f»-om a far country." 

Fate has long owed me a letter of good news 
from you, in return for the many tidings of sor- 
row which I have received. In this instance 
I most cordially obey the apostle — " Rejoice 
with them that do rejoice" — for me to sing for 
joy is no new thing ; but to preach for joy, as I 
have done in the commencement of this epistle, 
is a pitch of extravagant rapture to which I ne- 
ver rose before. 

I read your letter — I literally jumped for joy 
— How could such a mercurial creature as a poet, 
lumpishly keep his seat on the receipt of the 
best news from his best friend. I seized my 
gilt-headed Wangee rod, an instrument indis- 
pensably necessary, in my left hand, in the mo- 
ment of inspiration and rapture ; and stride, 
stride — quick and quicker — out skipt I among 
the broomy banks of Nith, to muse over my 
joy by retail. To keep within the bounds of 
prose was impossible. Mrs. Little's is a more 
elegant, but not a more sincere compliment to 
the sweet little fellow than T, extempore al- 
most, poured out to him in the following verses, 

(See the poem — On the Birth of a Posthumous 
Child.) 



349 

the 



place the capital letters properly ; as to 
punctuation, the printers do that themselves. 

I have a copy of Tarn o Shantcr ready to 
send you by the first opportunity : it is too 
heavy to send by post. 

I heard of Mr. Corbet lately. He, in con- 
sequence of your recommendation, is most zeal- 
ous to serve me. Please favour me soon with 
an account of your good folks ; if Mrs. H. 
is recovering, and the young gentleman doing 
well. 



No. CLV. 



I am much flattered by your approbation of 
my Tarn a* Shanter, which you express in your 
former letter, though, by the bye, you load me 
in that said letter with accusations heavy and 
many ; to all which I plead not guilty ! Your 
book is, 1 hear, on the road to reach me. As 
to printing of poetry, when you prepare it for 
the press, you have only to spell it right, and 



TO CRAUFORD TAIT, Esq. Edinburgh. 

DEAR. SIR, ElMand, Oct. \b, \190. 

Allow me to introduce to your acquaintance 
the bearer, Mr. Wm. Duncan, a friend of mine, 
whom I have long known and long loved. His 
father, whose only son he is, has a decent little 
property in Ayrshire, and has bred the young 
man to the law, in which department he comes 
up an adventurer to your good town. I shall 
give you my friend's character in two words : 
as to his head, he has talents enough, and more 
than enough for common life ; as to his heart, 
when nature had kneaded the kindly clay that 
comfinses it, she said, " I can no more." 

You, my good Sir, were born under kinder 
stars ; but your fraternal sympathy, I well know, 
can enter into the feelings of the young man, 
,vho goes into life wit. . the laudable ambition to 
do something, and to he something among his 
fellow creatures ; but whom the consciousness 
of friendless obscurity presses to the earth, and 
wounds to the soul ! 

Even the fairest of his virtues are against 
him. That independent spirit, and that inge- 
nuous modesty, qualities inseparable from a no- 
ble mind, are, with the million, circumstances 
not a little disqualifying. What pleasjire is in 
the power of the fortunate and the happy, by 
their notice and patronage, to brighten the 
countenance and glad the heart of such depi-ess- 
ed youth ! I am not so angry with mankind 
for their deaf economy of the purse: — The 
goods of this world cannot be divided, without 
being lessened — but why be a niggard of that 
which bestows bliss on a fellow-creature, yet 
takes nothing from our own means of enjoy- 
ment ? We wrap ourselves up in the cloak of 
our own better-fortune, and turn away our 
eyes, lest the wants and woes of our brother- 
mort^s should disturb the selfish apathy of our 
souls ! 

I am the worst hand in the world at asking a 
favour. That indirect address, that insinuating 
implication, which, without any positive re- 
quest, plainly expresses your wish, is a talent 
not to be acquired at a plough-tail. Tell m« 
then, for you can, in what periphrasis -•f Ian 



35C 



BURNS* WORKS. 



gfuage, in what circumvention of phrase, I shall 

envelope yet not conceal this plain story 

" My dear Mr. Tait, my friend Mr. Duncan, 
whom I have the pleasure of introducing to you, 
is a young lad of your own professitm, and a 
gentleman of much modesty and great worth. 
Perhaps it may be in your power to assist him 
in the, to him, important consideration of get- 
ting a place; but at all events, your notice and 
acquaintance will be a very great acquisition to 
him ; and I dare pledge myself that he will ne- 
ver disgrace your favour." 

You may possibly be surprised, Sir, at such 
a letter from me ; 'tis, I own, in the usual way 
of calculating these matters, more than our ac- 
quaintance entitles me toj but my answer is 
short : Of all the men at your time of life, whom 
I knew in Edinburgh, you are the most acces- 
sible on the side on which I have assailed you. 
You are very much altered indeed from what 
you were when I knew you, if generosity point 
the path you will not tread, or humanity call to 
you in vain. 

As to myself, a being to whose interest I be- 
lieve you are still a well-wisher ; I am here, 
breathing at all times, thinking sometimes, and 
rhyming now and then. Every situation has its 
share of the cares and pains of life, and my situ- 
ation I am persuaded has a full ordinary allow- 
ance of its pleasures and enjoyments. 

My best compliments to your father and Miss 
Tait. If you have an opportunity, please re 
member me in the solemn league and covenant 
of friendship to Mrs. Lewis Hay. I am a 
wretch for not writing her ; but 1 am so hack- 
neyed with self-accusation in tliat way, that 
my consi.'.ence lies in my bosom with scarce the 
sensibility of an oyster in its shell. Where is 
Lady M'Kenzie? wherever she is, God bless 
her! I likewise beg leave to trouble you with 
compliments to Mr. Wm. Hamilton ; Mrs. Ha- 
milton and family ; and Mrs. Chalmers, when 
you are in that country. Should you meet 
with Miss Nimmo, please remember me kindly 
to her. 



of a sparrow, and satire t ae pop-gun of a school 
boy. Creation-disgracing scelerats such as they 
God only can mend, and the devil only can pu- 
nish. In the comprehending way of Caligula, 1 
wish they had all but one neck. J ^1 impotent 
as a child to the ardour of my wishes ! O for a 
withering curse to blast the germins of their 
wicked machinations. O for a poisonous torna- 
do, winged from the torrid zone of Tartarus, to 
sweep the spreading crop of their villainous con- 
trivances to the lowest hell ! 



No. CLVI. 



TO 



DEAR SIR, 

Whethsr in the way of my trade, I can be 
of any service to the Rev. Doctor,* is I fear very 
doubtful. Ajax's shield consisted, I think, of 
seven bull -hides and a plate of brass, which al- 
together set Hector's utmost force at defiance. 
\las ! I am not a Hector, and the worthy Doc- 
tor's foes are as securely armed as Ajax was. 
Ignorance, superstition, bigotry, stupidity, ma- 
levolence, self-conceit, envy — all strongly bound 
in a niassy frame of brazen impudence. Good 
God, Sir ! to such a shield, humour is the peck 

• Dr. M'Gill of Ayr. j 



LETTERS, 1791. 

No. CLVIL 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellidand, 23d January, 1791. 

Manv happy returns of the season to you, 
my dear friend ! As many of the good things of 
this life, as is consistent with the usual mixture 
of good and evil in the cup of Being ! 

I have just finished a poem, which you will 
receive enclosed. It is ray first essay in the way 
of tales. 

I have, these several months, been hammer- 
ing at an elegy on the amiable and accomplish- 
ed Miss Burnet. I have got, and can get, no 
farther than the following fragment, on which, 
please give me your strictures. In all kmds oi 
poetic composition, I set great store by your 
opinion ; but in sentimental verses, in the poe- 
try of the heart, no Roman Catholic ever set 
more value on the infallibihty of the Holy Fa- 
ther than I do on yours. 

I mean the introductory couplets as text ver- 



ELEGY 

ON THE LATE MISS BURNET OF MONBODDO 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize, 
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies ; 
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow, 
As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low 

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget ; 
In richest ore the brightest jewel set ! 
In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown. 
As by his noblest work the Godhead best ia 
known. 

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves , 
Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore ; 

Ye woodland choir that chauut your idle loves, 
Ye cease to charm ; Eliza is nc more. 

Ye heathy wastes inmix'd with reedy fens, 
Ye mossy streams, with sedge and Jushet 
stor'd, 

Ye rugged cliff's o'erhanging dreary glens> 
To you I fly, ye with my soul '\ccord 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



351 



I ! 



Prirces whose camb'rous pride was all their 
worth, 

Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail ; 
And thou, sweet excellence ! forsake our earth, 

And not a muse in honest grief bewail. 

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride, 
And virtue's light that beams beyond the 
spheres ; 

But like the sun eclips'd at morning tide, 
Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears. 



Let me hear from you soon. Adieu ! 



No. CLVIII. 
TO MR. PETER HILL. 

, nth January, 1791. 
Take these two guineas, and place tl ver 

against that account of yours . .ich 

has gagged my mouth these five or six niui.ths ! 
I can as little write good things as apologies to 
the man I owe money to. O the supreme curse 
of making three guineas do the business of five ! 
Not all the labours of Hercules ; not all the He- 
brews' three centuries of Egyptian bondage were 

such an insuperable business, such an 

task ! ! Poverty ! thou half-sister of death, thou 
cousin-german of hell ! where shall I find force 
of execration equal to the amplitude of thy de- 
merits ? Oppressed by thee, the venerable an- 
cient, grown hoary in the practice of every vir- 
tue, laden with years and wretchedness, im- 
plores a little — little aid to support his exist- 
ence, from a stony-hearted son of Mammon, 
whose sun of prosperity never knew a cloud ; 
and is by him denied and insulted. Oppressed 
by thee, the man of sentiment, whose heart 
glows with independence, and melts with sensi- 
. bility, inly pines under the neglect, or writhes 
in bitterness of soul, under the contumely of ar- 
rogant, unfeeling wealth. Oppressed by thee, 
the son of genius, whose ill-starred ambition 
plants him at the tables of the fashionable and 
polite, must see, in suffering silence, his rera<irk 
neglected, and his person despised, while shal- 
low greatness, in his idiot attempts at wit, shall 
meet with countenance and applause. Nor is it 
only the family oi worth, that have reason to 
complaiin of thee ; the children of folly and vice, 
though in common with thee, the offspring of 
evil, smart equally under thy rod. Owing to 
thee, the man of unfortunate disposition and ne- 
glected education, is condemned as a fool for his 
dissipation, desoised and shunned as a needy 
wretch, when his follies, as usual, bring him to 
want : and when his unprincipled necessities 
drive him to dishonest practices, he is abhorred 
as a miscreant, and perishes by the justice of his 



country. But far otherwise is the k • of the man 
of family and fortune. His early fellies and ex- 
travagance, are spirit and fire ; his consequent 
wants, are the embarrassments of an honest fel- 
low ; and when, to remedy the matter, he has 
gained a legal commission to plunder distant 
provinces, or massacre peaceful nations, he re- 
turns, perhaps, laden with the spoils of rapine 
and murder ; lives wicked and respected, and 

dies a and a lord. — Nay, worst of all, 

alas for helpless woman ! the needy prostitute 
who has shivered at the corner of the street, 
waiting to earn the wages of carnal prostitution, 
is left neglected and insulted, ridden lown by 
the chariot-wheels of the coroneted rip, hurry- 
ing on to the guilty assignation ; she, who, 
without the same necessities to plead, riota 
nightly in the same guilty trade. 

Well ! divines may say of it what they please, 
but execration is to the mind, what phlebotomy 
is to the body ; the vital sluices of both ar« 
wonderfully relieved by their respective evacuar 
tions. 



No. CLIX. 

FROM A. F. TYTLER, Esq. 

DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, I2th March, 1791 

Mr. Hill yesterday put into uiy hands i» 
sheet of Grose's Antiquities, containizig a poem 
of yours, entitled Tarn o' Shanter, a tale. The 
very high pleasure I have received from the 
perusal of this admirable piece, I feel, demands 
the warmest acknowledgments. Hill tells me 
he is to send off a packet for you this day ; 1 
cannot resist therefore putting on paper what 1 
must have told you in person, had I met with 
you after the recent perusal of your tale, which 
is, that I feel I owe you a debt, which, if un- 
discharged, would reproach me with ingrati- 
tude. I have seldom in my life tasted of higher 
enjoyment from any work of genius, than I have 
received from this composition ; and I am much 
mistaken, if this poem alone, had you never 
written another syllable, would not have been 
sufficient to have transmitted your name down 
to posterity with high reputation. In tlyi in- 
troductory part, where you paint the character 
of your hero, and exhibit him at the ale-house 
ingle, with his tippling cronies, you have deli- 
neated nature with a humour and naivete, that 
would do honour to Matthew Prior ; but when 
you describe the unfortunate orgies of the 
witches' fiabbath, and the hellish scenery in 
which they are exhibited, you display a power 
of imagination, that Shakspe&:u himself could 
not have exceeded. I know not that I have 
ever met with a picture of more horrible fancy 
than the following : 

" Coffins stood round like open presses, 
That showed the dead in their last drwses 



S52 



BURNS* WORKS. 



And by some devilish cantrip slight, 
Each in his cauld hand held a light." 

But when I came to the succeeding lines, my 
blood ran cold within me ; 

* A knife a father's throat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son of life bereft : 
T'lie grey hairs yet stuck to the heft" 

And here, after the two following lines, " Wi' 
mair o' horrible and awfu'," &c. the descriptive 
part might perhaps have been better closed, than 
the four lines which succeed, which, though 
good in themselves, yet as they derive all their 
merit from the satire they contain, are here 
rather misplaced among the circumstances of 
pure horror.* The initiation of the young 
witch is most happily described — the effect of 
her charms, exhibited in the dance, on Satan 
himself — the apostrophe—" Ah, little thought 
thy reverend grannie !" — the transport of Tarn, 
who forgets his situation, and enters completely 
into the spirit of the scene, are all features of 
high merit, in this excellent composition. The 
only fault it possesses, is, that the winding up, 
or conclusion of the story, is not commensurate 
to the interest which is excited by the descrip- 
tive and characteristic painting of the preceding 
parts. — The preparation is fine, but the result 
is not adequate. But for this, perhaps, you 
have a good apology — you stick to the popular 
tale. 

And now that 1 have got out my mind, and 
feel a little relieved of the weight of that debt 
I owed you, let me end this desultory scroll by 
an advice : — You have proved your talent for 
a species of composition, in which but a very 
few of our own poets have succeeded — Go on 
— write more tales in the same style ; you will 
eclipse Prior and La Fontaine ; for, with equal 
wit, equal power of numbers, and equal naivete 
of expression, you have a bolder, and more vi- 
^Drous imagination. 

I am, dear Sir, with much esteem. 
Yours, &c. 



Wo. CLX. 
I TO THE SAME. 

I SIR, 

I I Nothing less than the unfortunate accident 

I I have met with, could have prevented my 
I i grateful acknowledgments for your letter. His 
j j own favourite poem, and that an essay in a 
I walk of the muses entirely new to him, where 
consequently his hopes and fears were in the 
mo9t anxious alarm for his success in the at- 
tempt ; to have that poem so much applauded 
oy one of the first judges, was the most delici- 
9US vibration that ever trilled along the heart- 



strings of a poor poet. However, prov'dencji 
to keep up the proper proportion of evil with 
the good, which, it seems is necessary in thia 
sublunary state, thought proper to check my 
exultation by a very serious misfortune. A 
day or two after I received your letter, my 
horse came down with me and broke my right 
arm. As this is the first service my arm has 
done me since its disaster, I find myself unable 
to do more than just in general terms to thank 
you for this additional instance of your patron- 
age and friendship. As to the faults you de- 
tected in the piece, they are truly there : one 
of them, the hit at the lawyer and priest, I shall 
cut out ; as to the falling oif in the catastrophe, 
for tlie reason you justly adduce, it ciunot easily 
be remedied. Your approhatio:!, Sir, has given 
me such additional spirits to jieisevere in this 
species of poetic composition, that I am already 
revolving two or three stories in my fancy. If 
I can bring these floating ideas to bear any kind 
of embodied form, it will give me an additional 
opportunity of assuring you how much I have 
the honour to be, &c. 



No. CLXI. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



« Our baid profited by Mr. Tytler's criticism, and 
Kpunged the foar lines accordingly. 



Ellisland, 7th February, 1791. 

When I tell you, Madam, that by a fall, not 
from my horse, but with my horse, I have been 
a cripple some time, and that this is the first 
day my arm and hand have been able to serve 
me in writing ; you will allow that it is too 
good an apology for my seemingly ungrateful 
silence. I am now getting better, and am able 
to rhyme a little, which implies some tolerable 
ease ; as I cannot think that the most poetic 
genius is able to compose on the rack. 

I do not remember if ever I mentioned to you 
my having an idea of composing an elegy on 
the late Miss Burnet of Monhoddo. I had the 
honour of being pretty well acquainted with 
her, and have seldom felt so much at the loss oi 
an acquaintance, as when I heard that so amia- 
ble and accomplished a piece of God's works 
was no more. I have as yet gone no farther 
than the following fragment, of which please let 
me have your opinion. You know that elegy 
is a subject so much exhausteo", that any new 
idea on the business is not to be expected ; 'tin 
well if we can place an old idea in a new light. 
How far I have succeeded as to this last, you 
will judge from what follows : — (See p. 3i7, 
then this additional verse)^ 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee. 
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and 
care ! 

So deckt the woodbine sweel- yon aged tree. 
So from it ravaged, leaves It bleak and bare. 

I have proceeded no further. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



Your kind letter, with your kind remem- 
brance of your god-son, came safe. This lust, 
Madam, is scarcely what my pride can bear. 
As to the little fellow, he is, partiality apart, 
the finest boy I have of a long time seen. He 
is now seventeen months old, has the small-pox 
and measles over, has cut several teeth, and yet 
never had a grain of doctor's drugs in his 
bowels. 

I am truly happy to hear that the " little 
floweret" is blooming so fresh and fair, and that 
tlie " mother plant" is rather recovering her 
drooping head. Soon and well may her " cruel 
wounds" be healed ! I have written thus far 
with a good deal of difficulty. When I get a 
■Ittle abler you shall hear farther from. 

Madam, yours, &c. 



No. CLXII. 
TO LADY W. M. CONSTABLE, 

ACKNOWLEDGING A PRKSENT OF A VALUABLE 
SNUFF-BOX, WITH A FINE PICTURE OF MARY, 
QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE LID. 

MY LADY, 

Nothing less tnau the unlucky accident of 
having lately broken my right arm, could have 
prevented me, the moment I received your lady- 
ship's elegant present by Mrs. Miller, fiom re- 
turning you my warmest and most grateful ac- 
knowledgments. I assure your ladyship, I shall 
set it apart ; the symbols of religion shall only 
be more sacred. In the moment of poetic com- 
position, the box shall be my inspiring genius. 
When 1 would breathe the comprehensive wish 
of benevolence for the happiness of others, I 
shall recollect your ladyship ; when I would in- 
terest my fancy in the distresses incident to hu- 
manity, I shall remember the unfortunate INIary. 



No. CLXIIL 
TO MRS. GRAHAM, OF FINTRY. 

MA HAM, 

Whether it is that the story of our Mary, 
Queen of Scots, has a peculiar effect on the 
feelings of a poet, or whether I have, in the en- 
closed ballad, succeeded beyond my usual poetic 
success, 1 know not : but it has pleased me be- 
yond any effort of my muse for a good while 
past ; on that account I enclose it particularly 
to you. It is true, the purity of my motives 
may be suspected. I am already deeply indebt- 
ed to Mr. G 's goodness ; and, what in 

the usual ways of men, is of infinitvly greater 



importance, Mr. G. can dc me service ol *he 
utmost importance in time to come. I >ya8 
born a poor dog ; and however I may occasion- 
ally pick a better bone .than I used to do, I 
know I must live and die poor ; but I will in- 
dulge the flattering faith that my poetry will 
considerably outlive my poverty ; and withou 
any fustain affectation of spirit, I can promise and 
affirm, that it must be no ordinary craving o, 
the latter shall ever make me do any thing ip« 
jurious to the honest fame of the former. What- 
ever may be my failings, for failings are a part 
of human nature, may they ever be those of a 
generous heart, and an independent mind. It 
is no fault of mine that I was born to depen- 
dence ; nor is it Mr. G 's chiefest praise 

that he can command influence ; but it his me- 
rit to bestow, not only with die kindness of a 
brother, but with the politeness of a gentleman ; 
and J trust it shall be mine, to receive with 
thankfulness and remember with undiminished 
gratitude. 



No. CLXIV. 



FROM THE REV. (NOW PRINCIPAL) 
BAIRD. 

SIR, London, Sth February, 1791. 

I trouble you with this letter, to inform 
you that I am in hopes of being able very soon 
to bring to the press a new edition (long since 
talked of) of Michael JBrvce's Poems. The 
profits of the edition are to go to his mother — 
a woman of eighty years of age — poor and help- 
less. The poems are to be published by sub- 
scription ; and it may be possible, I think, to 
make out a 2s. 6d. or 3s. volume, with the as- 
sistance of a few hitherto unpublished verses, 
which I have got fiom the mother of the poet. 

But the design I have in view in writing to 
you, is not merely to inform you of these facts, 
it is to solicit the aid of your name and pen in 
sujjport of the scheme. The reputation of Bruce 
is already high with every reader of classical 
taste, and I shall be anxious to guard against 
tarnishing his character, by allowing any new 
poems to appear that may lower it. For this 
purpose, the MSS. I am in possession of, have 
been submitted to the revision of some whose 
critical talents I can trust to, and I mean still to 
submit them to others. 

May I beg to know, therefore, if you will 
take the trouble of perusing the MSS, — of giv- 
ing your opinion, and suggesting what curtail- 
ments, alterations, or amendments, occur to you 
as advisable ? And will you allow us to let it be 
known, that a few lines by you will be added 
to the voluine ? 

I know the extent of this request.— It if 
bold to make it. But I have this consoialbn, 
that though you see it pi oper to refuse it, yoa 



354 



BURNS' WORKS. 



; you will 



will not blame me for having maov. 
see my apology in the motive. 

May I just add, that Michael Bruce is one in 
whose company, from his past appearance, you 
would not, I am convinced, hlush to he found ; 
and as I would submit every line of his that 
should now be published, to your own criti- 
cisms, you would be assured that nothing dero- 
gatory either to him or you, would be admitted 
in that appearance he may make in future. 

You have already paid an honourable tribute 
to kindred genius in Fergusson — I fondly hope 
that the mother of Bruce will experience your 
patronage. 

I wish to have the subscription papers circu- 
lated by the 14th of March, Bruce's birth-day; 
which,^ I understand, some friends in Scotland 
talk this year of observing— at that time it will 
be resolved, I imagine, to place a plain, humble 
stone over his grave. This, at least, I trust 
you will agree to do— to furnish, in a few coup- 
lets, an inscriptiun for it. 

On those points may I solicit an answer as 
early as possible ; a short delay might disap 
point us in procuring that relief to the mother 
which is the object of the whole. 

You will be pleased to address for me undei 
cover to the Duke of Athole, London. 



appellation), that by way of some balance, how- 
ever trifling, in the account, I am fain to do any 
good that occurs in my very limited power to a 
fellow-creature, just for the selfish purpose of 
clearing a little the vista of retrospection. 



No. CLXVT 
TO THE REV. ARCH. ALISON. 

Ellisland, near Dumfries, iUh Feb, 1791 



P" S. — Have you ever seen an engraving 
published here some time ago fro,m one of your 
poems, " O thou Pale Orb:' If you have 
not, I shall have the pleasure of sending it to 
vou. 



No. CLXV. 
TO THE REV. G. BAIRD, 

IK ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING. 

Why did you, my dear Sir, write to me in 
such a hesitating style, on the business of poor 
Bruce? Don't I know, and have I not felt, 
the many ills, the peculiar ills that poetic flesh 
is heir to ? You shall have your choice of all 
the unpublished poems I have ; and had your 
letter had my direction so as to have reached 
me sooner (it only came to n,y hand this mo- 
ment), I should have directly put you out of 
suspense on the subject. I only ask, that some 
prefatory advertisement in the book, as well as 
the subscription bills, may bear, that the publi- 
cation is solely for the benefit of Bruce's mo- 
ther. I would not put it in the power of igno- 
rance to surmise, or malice to insinuate, that I , 
clubbed a share in the work from mercenary | 
motives. Nor need you give me credit for any I 
remarkable generosity in my part of the busi- ' 
ness. I have such a host of peccadilloes, fdil- | 
ings, follies, and backslidings (any body but my- I 
self might perhaps give some of them a worse j 



You must, by this time, have set me down 
as one of the most ungrateful of men. You 
did me the honour to present me with a book 
which does honour to science and the intellectual 
powers of man, and I have not even so much aa 
acknowledged the receipt of it. The fact is, 
you yourself are to blame for it. Flattered as 
I was by your telling me that you wished to 
have my opinion of the work, the old spiritual 
enemy of mankind, who knows well that vanity 
is one of the sins that most easily beset me, put 
it into my head to ponder over the performance 
with the look-out of a critic, and to draw up 
forsooth a deep learned digest of strictures on a 
composition, of which, in fact, until I read the 
book, I did not even know the first principles. 
I own, Sir, that at first glance, several of your 
propositions startled me as paradoxical, that 
the martial clangor of a trumpet had something 
in it vastly more grand, heroic, and sublime, 
than the twingle twangle of a Jews' harp ; that 
the delicate flexure of a rose-twig, when the 
half-blown flower is heavy with the tears of the 
dawn, was infinitely more beautiful and elegant 
than the upright stub of a burdock ; and that 
from something innate and independent of all 
association of ideas ; — these I had set down as 
irrefragible, orthodox truths, until perusing your 
book shook my faith, — In short, Sir, except 
EuclicVs Elements of Geometry, which I made 
a shift to unravel by my father's fire-side, in the 
winter evening of the first season I held the 
plough, I never read a book which gave me 
such a quantum of information, and added so 
much to my stock of ideas as your " Essays an 
the Princif-les of Taste:' One thing, Sir, you 
must forgive my mentioning as an uncommon 
merit in the woik, I mean the language. To 
clothe abstract philosophy in elegance of stvle. 
sounds something like a contradiction in terms ; 
but you have convinced me that they are quite 
compatible. 

I enclose you some poetic bagatelles of my 
late composition. The one in print is my first 
essay in the way of telling a tale. 

I am, Sir, &c. 



il 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



355 



No. CLXVII. 



TO DR. MOORE. 



Ellisland, 2Sth February/, 1791. 

I DO not know, Sir, whether you are a sub- 
Bcriher to Grose's Antiquities of Scotland. If 
you are, the enclosed poem will not be altoge- 
ther new to you. Captain Grose did me the 
favour to send me a dozen copies of the proof- 
sheet, of which this is one. Should you have 
read the piece before, still this will answer the 
principal end I have in view : it will give me 
another opportunity of thanking you for all your 
goodness to the rustic bard ; and also of show- 
ing you, that the abilities you have been pleas- 
ed to commend and patronize are still employed 
in the way you wish. 

The Elegy on Captain Henderson, is a tri- 
bute to the memory of a man I loved much. 
Poets have in this the same advantage as Ro- 
man Catholics ; they can be of service to their 
friends after they have past that bourne where 
all other kindness ceases to be of any avail. 
Whether, after all, either the one or the other 
be of any real service to the dead, is, I fear, very 
problematical ; but I am sure they are highly 
gratifying to the living : and as a very orthodox 
text, I forget where in Scripture, says, " what- 
soever is not of faith, is sin ;" so say I, what- 
soever is not detrimental to society, and is of 
positive enjoyment, is of God, the giver of all 
good things, and ought to be received and en- 
joyed by his creatures with thankful delight. 
As almost all my religious tenets originate from 
my heart, I am wonderfully pleased with the 
idea, that I can still keep up a tender inter- 
course with the dearly beloved friend, or still 
more dearly beloved mistress, who is gone to 
the world of spirits. 

The ballad on Queen Mary was begun while 
1 was busy with Percy's Reliques of Enylish 
Poetry. By the way, how much is every 
honest heart, whiihhas a tincture of Caledonian 
prejudice, obliged to you for your glorious f«tory 
of Buchanan and Targe. 'Twas an unequivocal 
proof of your loyal gallantry of soul, giving Targe 
the victory. I should have been mortified to 
the groutd if you had not. 



/ have just read over, once more of many 
times, your Zeluco. I marked with my pen- 
cil, as I went along, every passage that pleased 
me particularly above the rest ; and one, or 
two, I think, which, with humble deference, 1 1 
am disposed to think unequal to the merits of 
the book. I have sometimes thought to tran- j 
scribe these marked passages, or at least so much 
of them as to point where they are, and send 
them to you. Original strokes that strongly 
depict the human heart, is your and Fielding's 
province, beyond any other novelist I have ever 
perused. Richardson indeed might perhaps be 
excepted ; but, unhappily, his dra^^^atis per- 



soncB are beings of some other world ; and how- 
ever they may captivate the unexperienced, ro- 
mantic fancy of a boy or a girl, they will ever, 
in proportion as we have made human nature 
our study, dissatisfy our riper minds. 

As to my private concerns, I am going on, a 
mighty tax-gatherer before the Lord, and have 
lately had the interest to get myself ranked on 
the list of excise as a supervisor. I am not yet 
employed as such, but in a few years I shall fall 
into the file of supervisorship by seniority. I 
have had an immense loss in the death of the 
Earl of Glencairn ; the patron from whom al, 
my fame and good fortune took its rise. Inde- 
pendent of my grateful attachment to him, 
which was indeed so strong that it pervaded 
my very soul, and was entwined with the thread 
of my existence ; eo soon as the prince's friends 
had got in (and every dog, you know, has his 
day), my getting forward in the excise would 
have been an easier business than otherwise it 
will be. Though this was a consummation de- 
voutly to be wished, yet, thank Heaven, I can 
live and rhyme as 1 am ; and as to my boys, 
poor little fellows ! if I cannot place them on 
as high an elevation in life as I could wish, I 
shall, if I am favoured so much of the Disposer 
of events as to see that period, fix them on as 
broad and independent a basis as possible. A- 
mong the many wise adages which have been 
treasured up by our Scottish ancestors, this is 
one of the best, Better be the head of the com- 
monalty, as the tail o' the gentry. 

But I am got on a subject, which, however 
interesting to me, is of no manner of conse- 
quence to you ; so I shall give you a short poem 
on the other page, and close this with assuring 
you how sincerely I have the honour to be, 
yours, &c. 

(Beauteous Rose-Bud, p. 66.) 



No. CLXVIII. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM 

\2th March, 1791. 
If the foregoing piece be worth your stric 
tures, let me have them. For my own part, a 
thing that I have just composed, always appears 
through a double portion of that partial medium 
in which an author will ever view his own 
works. I believe, in general, novelty has some- 
thing in it that inebriates the fancy, and not 
unfrequently dissipates and fumes away like 
other intoxication, and leaves the poor patient, 
as usual, with an aching heart. A striking 
instance of this might be adduced, in the revo- 
lutiou of many a hymeneal honeymoon. But 



356 



BURNS WORKS. 



lest I sink into stupid prose, and so sacrile<Tious- 
ly intrude on the office of" my parish piiest, I 
shall fill up the pd^j^e in my own way, and give 
you another song of my late composition, which 
will appear, perhaps, in Johnson's work, as well 
as the former. 

You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, 
There'll never he peace till Jamie comes home. 
When political combustion ceases to be the ob- 
ject of princes and patriots, it then, you know, 
becomes the lawful prey of historians and poets. 

(See Songs, p. 236). 



If you like the air, and if the stanzas hit your 
fancy, you cannot imagine, my dear friend, how 
much you would oblige me, if, by the charms 
of your delightful voice, you would give my 
honest effusion to " the memory of joys that are 
past," to the few friends whom you indulge in 
that pleasure. But I have scribbled on 'till I 
hear the clock has intimated the near approach 
of 



That hour 
stane." 



o' night's black arch the key- 



So good night to you ! Sound be your sleep, 
and delectable your dreams ! Apropos, how do 
you like this thought in a ballad, I have just 
now on the tapis ? 

I look to the west, when I gae to rest, 

That happy my dreams and my slumbers may 
be: 

For far in the west is he I lo'e best — 
The lad that is dear to my baby and me ! 



Good night, once more, and God bless you 



No. CXLIX. 
TO MR. ALEXANDER DALZIEL,* 

FACTOR, FINDLAYSTON. 

Ellisland, March 19, 1791. 

Mr DEAR SIR, 

I HAVE taken the liberty to frank this letter 
to you, as it encloses an idle poem of mine, 



♦ This g ntleman, the factor, or steward, of Biirns's 
noble friend. Lord Glencairn, with a view to encourage 
a second edition of tlie poems, laid the volume before 
his lordship, with svuh an account of the rustic bard's 
situation and (irosijccts as from his slender acquaint- 
ance with him he co.dd furnish The result, as com 
municated to Burns by Mr. Dalziel, is highly creditable 
to the character of Lord Glencairn. After reading the 
book, his lordship declared that its merits greatly ex- 
ceeded his expectation, and he took it with him as a 
]iterary curiosity to Edinburgh. He repeated his 



which I send you ; and God knows you may 
perhaps pay dear enough for it if you read it 
through. Not that this is my own opinion ; but 
an author, by the time he has composed and 
corrected his work, has quite pored away all 
his powers of critical discrimination. 

I can easily guess from my own heart, what 
you have felt on a late most melancholy event. 
God knows what I have suffered, at the loss of 
my best friend, my first, my dearest patr(jn and 
benefactor ; the man to whom I owe all that I 
am and have I I am gone into mourning for 
hlra, and with more sincerity of grief than I 
fear some will, who by nature's ties ought to 
feel on the occasion. 

I will be exceedingly obliged to you indeed, 
to let me know the news of the noble family, 
how the poor mother and the twx sisters sup- 
port their loss. I had a packet of poetic baga- 
telles ready to send to Lady Betty, when I saw 
the fatal tidings in the newspaper. I see by the 
same channel that the honoured remains of my 
noble patron, are designed to be brought to the 
family burial place. Dare I trouble you to let 
me know privately before the day of interment, 
that I may cross the country, and steal among 
the crowd, to pay a tear to the last sight of my 
ever revered benefactor ? It will oblige me be- 
yond expression. 



No. CL. 



FROM DR. MOORE. 

dear sir, London, 29th March, 1791. 

Your letter of the 28th of February I recei^ 
ved only two days ago, and this day I had the 
pleasure of waiting on the Rev. Mr. Baird, at 
the Duke of Athole's, who had been so obliging 
as to transmit it to me, with the printed verses 
on AUoicay Church, the Elegy on Captain 
Henderson, and the Epitaph. There are many 
poetical beauties in the former : what I particu- 
larly admire are the three striking similes trom 

" Or like the snow falls in the river," 

and the eight lines which begin with 

" By this time he was cross the ford ;" 

so exquisitely expressive of the superstitious im- 
pressions of the country. And the twenty-two 
lines from 

" Coffins stood round like open presses," 



wishes to be of service to Burns, and desired Mr. Dal- 
ziel to inform him, that m patronizing the book, ush- 
ering it with effect into the world, or treating with 
the Dooksellers, he would most willingly give every 
aid in his power ; adding his request that Burns would 
take the earliest opportunity of letting him know in 
what way or manner he could best further his interests. 
He also expressed a wish to see some of the unpul> 
lished manuscripts, with a view to establishing his ch» 
racter with the world. — Cromkk. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



357 



whict, in my opinion, are equal to the ingre- 
dients of Shakspeare's cauldron in Macbeth. 

As for the Elegy, the chief merit of it con- 
sists in the very graphical description of the ob- 
jects belonging to the country in which the poet 
writes, and which none but a Scottish poet 
could have described, and none but a real poet, 
and a close observer of Nature, could have so 
described. 



There is something original, and to me wonder- 
fully pleasing, in the Epitaph, 

I remember you once hinted before, what you 
"■"peat in your last, that you had made some -e- 
marks on Zcluco, on the margin. I should be 
very glad to see them, and regret you did not 
send thern before the last edition, which is just 
published. Pray transcribe them for me, I sin- 
cerely value your opinion very highly, and pray 
do not suppress one of those in which you cen- 
sure the sentiment or expression. Trust me it 
will break no squares between us — I ara not 
ikin to the Bishop of Grenada. 

I must now mention what has been on my 
mind for some time : I cannot help thinking 
you imprudent in scattering abroad so many 
copies of your verses. It is most natural to 
give a few to confidential friends, particularly 
to those who are connected with the subject, 
or who are perhaps themselves the subject, but 
this ought to be done under promise not to give 
other copies. Of the poem you sent me on 
Queen IMary, I refused every solicitation for 
copies, but I lately saw it in a newspaper. My 
motive for cautioning you on this subject is, 
that I wish to engage you to collect all your 
fugitive pieces, not already printed, and after 
they have been re-considered, and polished to 
the utmost of your power, I would have you 
publish them by another subscription ; in pro- 
moting of which I will exert myself with plea- 
sure. 

In your future compositions, I wish you 
would use the modern English. You have 
shown your powers in Scottish sufficiently. 
Although in certain subjects it gives additional 
zest to the humour, yet it is lost to the Eng- 
lish ; and why should you write only for a part 
of the island, when you can command the ad- 
miration of the whole. 

If you chance to write to my friend Mrs. 
Dunlop of Dunlop, I beg to be affectionately 
remembered to her. She must not judge of the 
warmth of my sentiments respecting her, by the 
number of my letters ; I hardly ever write a line 
but on business : and I do not know that I 
should have scribbled all this to you, but for the 
business part, that is, to instigate you to a new 
publication ; and to tell yOu that when you 
think you have a sufficient number to make a 
volume, you should set your friends on getting 
subscriptions. I wish I could have a few hours 
conversation with you — I have many things to 
say which I cannot write. If I ever go to Scot- 



land, T will let you know, that you may meet 
me at your own house, or my friend Mrs. Ha- 
milton's, or both. 

Adieu, my dear Sir, &c. 



No. CLI. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, Wth April, 1791. 
I AM once more able, my honoured friend, t<j 
return you, with my own hand, thanks for the 
many instances of your friendship, and particu- 
larly for your kind anxiety in this last disaster 
that ray evil genius had in store for me. How- 
ever, life is chequered — joy and sorrow — for 
on Saturday morning last, Mrs. Burns made 
me a present of a fine boy ; rather stouter but 
not so handsome as your god-son was at his time 
of life. Indeed I look on your little namesake 
to be my chef (Toeuvre in that species of manu- 
facture, as I look on Tarn o" Shunter to be my 
standard performance in the poetical line. 'Tis 
true, both the one and the other discover a spice 
of roguish waggery, that might, perhaps, be as 
well spared ; but then they also show, in my 3- 
pinion, a force of genius, and a finishing polish, 
that I despair of ever excelling. Mrs. Burns 
is getting stout again, and laid as lustily about 
her to-day at breakfast, as a reaper from the 
corn-ridge. That is the peculiar privilege and 
blessing of our hale, sprightly damsels, that are 
bred among the hay and heather. We cannot 
hope for that highly polished mind, that charm- 
ing delicacy of soul, which is found among the 
female world in the more elevated stations of 
life, and which is certainly by far the most be- 
witching charm in the famous cestus of Venus. 
It is indeed such an inestimable treasure, that 
where it can be had in its native heavenly pu- 
rity, unstained by some one or other of the 
many shades of affectation, and unalloyed by 
some one or other of the many species of ca- 
price, I declare to Heaven, I should think it 
cheaply purchased at the expense of every other 
earthly good ! But as this angelic creature is, 
I am afraid, extremely rare in any station and 
rank of life, and totally denied to such an hum- 
ble one as mine ; we meaner mortals must put 
up with the next rank of female excellence — 
as fine a figure and face we can produce as any 
rank of life whatever ; rustic, native grace ; un- 
affected modesty, and unsullied purity ; nature' ' 
mother-wit, and the rudiments of taste ; a sim- 
plicity of soul, unsuspicious of, because unac- 
quainted with, the crooked ways of a selfish^ 
interested, disfngenuous world ; — and the dear- 
est charm of all the rest, a yielding sweetness 
of disposition, and a generous warmth of heart, 
grateful for love on our part, and ardently glow- 
ing with a more than equal return ; these, 
wit/a a healthy frame, a sound vigorous constip 



358 



BURNS' WORKS. 



tution, which your high ranks can scarcely ever 
hope to enjoy, are the charms of lovely woinan 
in my huinhle walk of life. 

This is the greatest effort nny broken arm has 
vet made. Do, let me hear by first post, how 
cJier petit Monsieur comes on with his small- 
pox. May Almighty Goodness preserve and re- 
"store him ! 



No. CLII. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

nth June, 1791. 

Let me interest you, my dear Cunningham, 
in behalf of the gentleman, who waits on you 
with this. He is a Mr. Clarke, of Moffat, 
principal schoolmaster there, and is at present 

suffering severely under the of 

one or two powerful individuals of his em- 
ployers. He is accused of harshness to 

that were placed under his care. 
God help the teacher, if a man of sensibility 
and genius, and such is my friend Clarke, 
when a booby father presents him with his 
booby son, and insists on lighting up the rays 
of science, in a fellow's head whose skull is im- 
pervious and inaccessible by any other way 
than a positive fracture with a cudgel ; a fellow 
whom, in fact, it savours of impiety to attempt 
making a scholar of, as he has been marked a 
blockhead in the book of fate, at the almighty 
fiat of his Creator. 

The patrons of Moffat school are, the mi- 
nisters, magistrates, and town-council of Edin- 
burgh, and as the business comes now before 
them, let me beg my dearest friend to do every 
thing in his power to serve the interests of a 
man of genius and worth, and a man whom I 
particularly respect and esteem. You know 
8ome good fellows among the magistracy and 

council, but 

particularly, you have much to say with a re- 
verend gentleman to whom you have the ho- 
nour of being very nearly related, and whom 
his country and age have had the honour to 
produce. I need not name the historian of 
Charles V.* I tell him, through the medium 
of his nephew's influence, that Mr. Clarke is a 
gentleman who will not disgrace even his pa- 
tronage. I know the merits of the cause tho- 
roughly, and say it, that my friend is falling 
a sacrifice to prejudiced ignorance, and . 

God help the children of dependence ! 
Hated and persecuted by their enemies, and too 
often, alas ! almost unexceptionably, received by 
their friends with disrespect and reproach, under 
the thin disguise of cold civility and humiliating 
advice, O to be a stw iy savage, stalking in 
the pride of his independence, amid the solitary 



wilds of his deserts, rather than in civilized life, 
helplessly to tremble for a subsistenct, precari- 
ous as the caprice of a fellow-creature ! Every 
man has his virtues, and no man is without his 
failings ; and curse on that privileged plain- 
dealing of friendship, which in the hour of my 
calamity, cannot reach forth the helping hand 
without at the same time pointing out those 
failings, and apportioning them their share in 
procuring my present distress. My friends, for 
such the world calls ye, and such ye think your- 
selves to be, pass by virtues if you please, but 
do, also, spare my follies : the first will witness 
in my breast for themselves, and the last v/ill 
give pain enough to the ingenuous mind with- 
out you. And since deviating more or less from 
the paths of propriety and rectitude, must be 
incident to human nature, do thou, fortune, 
put it in my power, always from myself, and 
of myself, to bear the consequences of those 
errors. I do not want to be independent that 
I may sin, but I want to be independent in my 
sinning. 

To return in this rambling letter to the sub- 
ject I set out Avith, let me recommend my friend, 
Mr. Clarke, to your acquaintance and good of- 
fices ; his worth entitles him to the one, and 
his gratitude will merit the other. I long much 
to hear from you. Adieu. 



No. CLin. 

FROM THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

Dryburgh Abbey, Mth ^une, 1791. 
Lord Buchan has the pleasure to invite Mr 
Burns to make one at the coronation of the bust 
of Thomson, on Ednam Hill, on the 22d of Sep- 
tember ; for which day perhaps his muse may 
inspire an ode suited to the occasion. Suppose 
Mr. Burns should, leaving the Nith, go across 
the country, and meet the Tweed at the nearest 
point from his farm — and, wandering along the 
pastoral banks of Thomson's pure parent stream, 
catch inspiration on the devious walk, till he 
finds Lord Buchan sitting on the ruins of Dry- 
burgh. There the commendator will give him 
a hearty welcome, and try to light his lamp at 
the pure flame of native genius, upon the altar 
of Caledonian virtue. This poetical perambu- 
lation of the Tweed, is a thought of the lato 
Sir Gilbert Elliot's and of Lord Minto's, follow- 
ed out by his acco xiplished grandson, the pre- 
sent Sir Gilbert, who, having been with lord 
Buchan lately, the project was renewed, anfl 
will, they hope, be executed in the manner pro 



• Dr. RobcrtMjn was uncle to Mr. Cunnineham. 1 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



359 



No. CLIV. 
TO THE SAME. 

MT LORD, 

Language sinks under the ardour of niy 
feelings, when I would thank your lordship for 
the honour you have done me in inviting me 
to make one at the coronation of the bust of 
Thomson. In my first enthusiasm in reading 
the card you did me the honour to write me, I 
overlooked every obstacle, and determined to go ; 
but I fear it will not be in my power. A week 
or two's absence, in the very middle of my har- 
vest, is what I much doubt I dare not venture 
on. 

Your lordship hints at an ode for the occa- 
sion : but who would write after Collins ? I 
read over his verses to the memory of Thomson, 
and despaired. — I got indeed to the length of 
three or four stanzas, in the way of address to 
the shade of the bard, on crowning his bust. 
T shall trouble your lordship, with the subjoin- 
ed copy of them, which, I am afraid, will be 
but too convincing a proof how unequal I am 
to the task. However, it affords me an oppor- 
tunity of approaching your lordship, and declar- 
ing how sincerely and gratefully 1 have the ho- 
nour to be, &c. 

(Seep.5&,) 



And that other favourite one from Thomson* 
Alfred— 

" What proves the hero truely great, 
Is, never, never to despair," 

Or, shall I quote you an author of your ac- 
quaintance? 

" — Whether doing, suffering, or forbear- 
ing, 
You may do miracles by — persevering." 

I have nothing new to tell you. The few- 
friends we have are going on in the old way. I 
sold my crop on this day se' night, and sold it 
very well. A guinea an acre, on an average, 
above value. But such a scene of drunkenness 
was hardly ever seen in this country. After 
the roup was over, about thirty people engaged 
in a battle, every man for his own hand, and 
fought it out for three hours. Nor was the 
scene much better in the house. No fighting, 
iadeed, but folks lying drunk on the floor, and 
decanting, until both my dogs got so drunk by 
attending them, that they could not stand. 
You will easily guess how I enjoyed the scene ; 
as I was no farther over than you used to see 
me. 

Mrs. B. and family have been in Ayrshiis 
these many weeks. 

Farewell ! and God bless you, my dear Friend ! 



No. CLV. 
TO MR. THOMAS SLOAN, 

cars of WM. KENNEDY, ESQ. MANCHESTER. 

JEllisIand, Sept. 1, 1791. 

MY DEAR SLOAN, 

Suspense is worse than disappointment, for 
that reason I hurry to tell you that I just now 
learn that Mr. Ballantine does not choose to in- 
terfere more in the business. I am truly sorry 
for it, but cannot help it. 

You blame me for not writing you sooner, 
but you will please to recollect that you omit- 
ted one little necessary piece of information ; — 
your address. 

However you know equally well, my hurried 
life, indolent temper, and strength of attach- 
ment. It must be a longer period than the 
ongest life " in the world's hale and undege- 
nerate days," that will make mc forget so dear 
a friend as Mr. Sloan. I am prodigal enough 
at times, but I will not part with such a trea- 
sure as that. 

I can easily enter into the emharras of your 
present situation. You know mvfavouiite quo 
tation from Young — 

" On Reason build Resolve ' 



That column of true majesty in man. — 



No. CLVL 
FROM THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

Dryhurgh Abbey, \Qth September, 1791. 

SIR, 

Your address to the shade of Thomson has 
been well received by the public ; and though I 
should disapprove of your allowing Pegasus to 
ride with you off the field of your honourable 
and useful profession, yet I cannot resist an im- 
pulse which I feel at this moment to suggest to 
your muse, Harvest Home, as an excellent sub- 
ject for her grateful song, in which the peculiar 
aspect and manners of our country might fur- 
nish an excellent portrait and landscape of Scot- 
land, for the employment of happy moments ot 
leisure and recess, from your more important 
occupations. 

Your Halloween, and Saturday Night, will 
remain to distant posterity as interesting pic- 
tures of rural innocence and happiness in your 
native country, and were happily written in th& 
dialect of the people ; but Harvest Home being 
suited to descriptive poetry, except where collo- 
quial, may escape disguise of a dialect which ad- 
mits of no elegance or dignity of expression. 
Without the assistance of any god or goddess, 
' and without the invocation of any foreign muse, 
J you may convey in epistolary form the descrio- 



BURNS' WORKS. 



don of a scone so p'^tlih-nirg and picturesque, 
irith all the .oncoiiiitant local position, laii«i- 
Bcape and costume ; contrastinjj tlic peace, im- 
provement, and happiness of the borders of the 
once hostile nations of Britain, with their former 
oppression and misery, and showing, in lively 
and beautiful colours, the beauties and joys of a 
rural life. And as the unvitiated heart is na- 
turally disposed to overflow in gratitude in the 
moment of prosperity, such a subject would fur- 
nish you with an amiable opportunity of perpe- 
tuating the names of Q.jncairn, Miller, and 
your other eminent benefactors ; which from 
what I know of your spirit, and have seen of 
your poems and letters, will not deviate from 
the chastity of praise, that is so uniformly unit- 
ed to true taste and genius. 

I am, Sir, &c* 



No. CLVII. 
TO LADY E. CUNNINGHAM 

KV LADY, 

I WOULD, as usual, have availed myself of the 
privilege your goodness has allowed nie, of send- 
ing you any thing I compose in ray poetical 
•a.'ay ; but as I had resolved, so soon as the 
Sock of my irreparable loss would allow me, to 
oay a tribute to my late benefactor, I determined 
,,0 make that the first piece I should do myself 
the honour of sending you. Had the wing of 
my fancy been equal to the ardour of my heart; 
the enclosed had been much more worthy your 
perusal ; as it is, I beg leave to lay it at your 
ladyship's feet. As all the world knows my 
obligations to the late Earl of Glencalrn, I would 
wish to show as openly that my heart glows, 
and shall ever glow, with the most grateful 
sense and remembrance of his lordship's good- 
ness. The sables 1 did mjself the honour to 
wear to his lordship's memory, were not the 
" mockery of woe." Nor shall my gratitude 
perish with me : — If, among my children, I 
shall have a son that has a heart, he shall hand 
it down to his child as a family honour, am 
family debt, that my dearest existence I owe to 
the noble house oi Glencairn ! 

I was about to say, my lady, that if you think 
the poem may venture to see the light, I would, 
in some way or other, give it to the world. * 



• 'Ifie poem enclosed, is The Lament for Janus 



No. CLVIII. 
TO MR. AINSLIE. 

MY DEAR AINSLIE, 

Can you minister to a mind diseased ? Can 
you, amid the horrors of penitence, regret, re- 
morse, head-ache, nausea, and all the rest of the 
d — d hounds of hell, that beset a poor wretch, 
who has been guilty of the sin of drunkenness- 
can you speak peace to a troubled soul .' 

Miserable perdu that I am, I have tried every 
thing that used to amuse me, but in vain : here 
must I sit a monument of the vengeanca laid up 
in store for the wicked, slowly counting every 
chick of the clock as it slowly — slowlv numbers 
over these lazy scoundrels of hours, who, d — n 
them, are ranked up before me, every one at his 
neighbour's backside, and every one with a bur- 
then of anguish on his back, to pour on my de- 
voted head — and there is none to pity me. My 
wife scolds me ! my business torments me, and 
my sins come staring me in the face, every one 

telling a more bitter tale than his fellow 

WheL. I tell you even .... has lost its 
power to please, you will guess something of 
my hell within, and all around me — I began 
Elibanks and Elibraes, but the stanza fell un- 
enjoyed, and unfinished from my listless tongue ; 
at last I luckily thought of reading over an old 
letter of yours, that lay by me in my book-case, 
and I felt something for the first time since I 

opened my eyes, of pleasurable existence. 

Well — I begin to breathe a little, since I began 
to write you. How are you, and what are you 
doing? How goes law? Apropos, for connec- 
tion's sake do not address to me supervisor, for 
that is an honour I cannot pretend to — I am on 
the list, as we call it, for a supervisor, and will 
be called out by and bye to act one ; but at 
present, I am a simple gauger, tho' t'other day I 
got an appointment to an exci>re division of L.2d 
per ann, better than the rest. My present in 
come, down money, is L.^O per ann. 



1 have one or two good fellows here whom 
you would be ,;lad to know. 



No. CLIX. 

FROM S.R JOHN WHITEFOORD. 

SIR, Near Maybnle, \Gth Oct. 1791 

Accept of my thanks for your favour with 
the Lament on the death of my muc^h esteemed 
friendi and your worthy patron, the perusal of 
which pleased and affected me much. The lines 
addressed to nie are very Hattering. 

( have always thought it most natural to s'lp 
I p«»se, ( and a strong argument in favour of a fu 



361 



ture existence) ttiat wli'^n we see an lionourable 
and virtuous man labouring under bodily infir- 
mities, and oppressed by the frowns of fortune 
in this world, that there was a happier state be- 
yond the grave ; where that worth and honour 
which were neglected here, would meet with 
their Just reward, and where temporal misfor- 
tunes would receive an eternal recompense. Let 
us cherish this hope for our departed friend ; 
and moderate our grief for that loss we have 
sustained ; knowing that he cannot return to 
us, but we may go to him. 

Remember me to your wife, and with every 
good wish for the prosperity of you and your 
family, believe me at all times, 

Your most sincere friend, 

JOHN WHITEFOORD. 



No. CLX. 

FROM A. F. TYTLER, Esq. 

Edinburgh, 21 th Nov. 179L 
You have much reason to blame me for ne- 
glecting till now to acknowledge the receipt of 
a most agreeable packet, containing The Whin- 
tie, a ballad ; and The Lament ; which reached 
me about six weeks ago in London, from whence 
I am just returned. Your letter was forwarded 
to me there from Edinburgh, where, as I ob- 
served by the date, it had lain for some days. 
This was an additional reason for me to have 
answered it immediately on receiving it ; but 
the truth was, the bustle of business, engage- 
ments and confusion of one kind or another, in 
which I found myself immersed all the time I 
was in London, absolutely put it out of my 
power. But to have done with apologies, let 
me now endeavour to prove myself in some de- 
gree deserving of the very flattering compliment 
you pay me, by giving you at least a frank and 
candid, if it should not be a judicious criticism 
on the poems you sent me. 

The ballad of The Whistle is, in my opinion, 
truly excellent. The old tradition which you 
have taken up is the best adapted for a Baccha- 
nalian composition of any I have ever met with, 
and you have done it full justice. In the first 
place, the strokes of wit arise naturally from 
the subject, and ar« uncommonly happy. For 
example, — 

«' The bands grew the tighter the more they 
were wet." 

" Cynthia hinted she'd find them next morn." 

♦ Though Fate said a hero should perish in light. 
So up rose bright Phoebus and down fell the 
knight," 

*n the next place, you are singularly happy in 



the discrimination of your heroes, and in giving 
each the sentiments and language suitable to hig 
character. And, lastly, you have much merit 
in the delicacy of the panegyric which you have 
contrived to throw on each of the dramatis per- 
sonoe, perfectly appropriate to his character. 
The compliment to Sir Robert, the blunt sol- 
dier, is peculiarly fine. In short, this composi- 
tion, in my opinion, does you great honour, and 
I see not a line or a word in it which I could 
wish to be altered. 

As to The Lament, I suspect, from some ex- 
pressions in your letter to me, that yiui are more 
doubtful with respect to the merits of this piece 
than of the other, and I own I think you have 
reason ; for although it contains some beautiful 
stanzas, as the first, " The wind blew hollow," 
&c. the fifth, " Ye scatter 'd birds ;" the thir- 
teenth, " Awake thy last sad voice," &c. Yet 
it appears to me faulty as a whole, and inferior 
to several of those you have already published 
in the same strain. My principal objection lies 
against the plan of the piece. I think it was 
unnecessary and improper to put the lamenta- 
tion in the mouth of a fictitious character, an 
aged hard — It had been much better to have 
lamented your patron in your own person, to 
have expressed your genuine feelings for his loss, 
and to have spoken the language of nature rather 
than that of fiction on the subject. Compare 
this with your poem of the same title in your 
printed volume, which begins, O thou pale 
Orb ! and observe what it is that forms the 
charm of that composition. It is, that it speaks 
the language of truth and of nature. The change 
is, in my opinion, injudicious too in this respect, 
that an aged bard has much less need of a pa- 
tron and protector than a young one. I have 
thus given you, with much freedom, my opinion 
of both the pieces. I should have made a very 
ill return to the compliment you paid me, if 1 
had given you any other than my genuine sen- 
timents. 

It will give me great pleasure to hear from 
you when you find leisure, and I beg you will 
believe me ever, dear Sir, yours, &c. 



No. CLXl. 



TO MISS DA VIES. 



It is impossible, Madam, that the generous 
warmth and angelic purity of your youthful 
mind, can have any dea of that moral disease 
under which I unhappily must rank as the chief 
of sinners ; I mean a torpitude of the mora' 
powers that may be called, a lethargy of con- 
science In vain remorse rears her horrent 

crest, and rouses all her snakes ; beneath the 
deadly fixed eye and leaden hand of indolence, 
their wildest ire is charmed into the torpor of the 
bat, slumb'jring out the rigours of winter in tht 
W 



S62 



BURNS' WORKS. 



chink of a ruined wall. Nothing less, Madam, 
could have madt me so long neglect your oblig- 
ing commands. Indeed I had one apology — the 
bagatelle was not worth presenting. Besides, 

BO strongly am I interested in Miss D 's fate 

and welfare in the serious business of life, amid 
its chances and changes ; that to make her the 
subject of a silly ballad, is downright mockery of 
these ardent feelings ; 'tis like an impertinent 
jest to a dying friend. 

Gracious Heaven ! why this disparity be- 
tween our wishes and our powers ? Why is the 
most generous wish to make others blest, impo- 
tent and ineffectual — as the idle breeze that 
crosses the pathless desert ? In my walks of life 
I have met with a few people to whom how 
gladly would I have said — " Go, be happy ! I 
know that your hearts have been wounded by 
the scorn of the proud, whom accident has plac- 
ed above you — or worse still, in whose hand are, 
perhaps, placed many of the comforts of your 
life. But there ! ascend that rock, Indepen- 
dence, and look justly down on their littleness 
of soul. Make the worthless tremble under your 
indignation, and the foolish sink before your con- 
tempt ; and largely impart that happiness to 
others, which, I am certain, will give yourselves 
so much pleasure to bestow !" 

Why, dear Madam, must I wake from this de- 
lightful reverie, and find it all a dream ? Why, 
amid my generous enthusiasm, must I find my- 
self poor and powerless, incapable of wiping one 
tear from the eye of pity, or of adding one com- 
fort to the friend I love ! — Out upon the world ! 
say I, that its aflEairs are administered so ill ? 
They talk of reform ;— good Heaven ! what a 
reform would I make among the sons, and even 
the daughters of men ! — Down, immediately, 
should go fools from the high places where mis- 
begotten chance has peiked them up, and through 
life should they skulk, ever haunted by their na- 
tive insignificance, as the body marches accom- 
panied by its shadow. — As for a much more for- 
midable class, the knaves, I am at a loss what to 
do with them : Had I a world, there should not 
be a knave in it. 



But the hand that could give, I wouid liberally 
fill ; and I would pour delight on the heart that 
could kindly forgive, and generously love. 

Still the inequalities of his life are, among 
men, comparatively tolerable — but there is a de- 
licacy, a tenderness, accompanying every view 
in which we can place lovely Woman, that are 
grated and shocked at the rude, capricious dis- 
tinctions of fortune. Woman is the blood-royal 
'■»f life : let there be slight degrees of precedency 
among them — but let them be all sacred 
Whether this last sentiment be right or wrong, 
I am not accountable ; it is an original compo- 
\eat feature of my mind. 



No. CLXll. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP 

ElUsland, Mill December, i79I. 

Many thanks to you, Madam, for your gooi 
news respecting the little floweret and the mo- 
ther plant. I hope my poetic prayers have 
been heard, and will be answered up to the 
warmest sincerity of their fullest extent; and 
then Mrs. Henri will find her little darling the 
representative of his late parent, in every thing 
but his abridged existence. 

I have just finished the following song, which, 
to a lady the descendant of Wallace, and many 
heroes of his truly illustrious line, and herseh 
the mother of several soldiers, needs neither pre 
face nor apology. 

{Death Song. Seep. 230) 



The circumstance that gave rise to the fore- 
going verses was, looking over, with a musica. 
friend, M'Donald's collection of Highland airs 
I was struck with one, an Isle of Skye tune 
entitled 0)an an Aoig, or, The Sung of Death 
to the measure of which I have adapted my 
stanzas. I have of late composed two or three 
other little pieces, which ere yon full orbed 
moon, whose broad impudent face now stares at 
old mother earth all night, shall have shrunk 
into a modest crescent, just peeping forth at 
dewy dawn, I shall find an hour to transcribt 
for you. A Dieuje vous commende ! 



LETTERS, 1792. 

No. CLXIIL 

TO FRANCIS GROSE, Esq. F.A.S, 

SIR, 1792. 

I BELIEVE among all our Scots literati you 
have not met with Professor Dugald Stewart, 
who fills tlie moral philosophy chair in the Uni- 
versity of Edinbi rgh. To say that he is a man 
of the first partis, and what is more, a man o. 
the first worth, to a gentleman of your general 
acquaintance, and who so much enjoys the lux- 
ury of unencumbered freedom and undisturbed 
privacy, is not perhaps recommendation enough : 
— but when I inform you that Mr. Stewart's 
principal characteristic is your favourite fea 
ture ; Ma^ sterling independence of mind, which, 
though every man's right, so few men have the 
courage to claim, and fewer still the magnani- 
mity to support ; — When I tell you, that unse- 
duced by splendour, and undisgusted by wretch- 
edness, he appreciates the merits of the various 
actors in the great drama of life, merely as the* 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



363 



perform their parts — in short, he is a man after 
your own heart, and I comply with his earnest 
request in letting you know that he wishes 
above all things to meet with you. His house, 
Catrine, is within less than a mile of Sorn Cas- 
tle, which you proposed visiting ; or if you 
could transmit him the enclosed, he would with 
the greatest pleasure, meet you any where in the 
neighbourhood. I write to Ayrshire to inform 
Mr. Stewart that I have acquitted myself of my 
promise. Should your time and spirits permit 
your meeting with Mr. Stewart, *tis well ; if 
not, I hope you will forgive this liberty, and I 
have at least an opportunity of assuring you 
with what truth and respect, 
I am, Sir, 

Your great admirer. 

And very humble servant. 



No. CLXIV. 



TO THE SAME. 



Among the many witch stories T have heard 
relating to Alloway kirk, I distinctly remember 
only two or three. 

Upon a stormy night, amid whistling squalls 
of wind, and bitter blasts of hail ; in short, on 
Buch a night as the devil would choose to take 
the air in ; a farmer cr farmer's servant was 
pfodding and plashing homeward with his plough 
irons on his shoulder, having been getting some 
repairs on them at a neighbouring smithy. His 
wav lay by the kirk of Alloway, and being ra- 
ther on the anxious look out in approaching a 
place so well known to be a favourite haunt of 
the devil and the devil's friends and emissaries, 
he was struck aghast by discovering through 
the horrors of the storm and stormy night, a 
Uuht, which, on his nearer approach, plainly 
snowed itself to proceed from the haunted edi- 
fice. Whether he had been fortified from above 
on his devout supplication, as is customary with 
people when they suspect the immediate pre- 
>»ence of Satan ; or whether, according to ano- 
ther custom, he had got courageously drunk at 
the smithy, I will not pretend to determine ; 
bjt so it was that he ventured to go up to, nay 
into the very kirk. As good luck would have 
it his temerity came off unpunished. 

The members of the infernal junto were all 
out on some midnight business or other, and he 
saw nothing but a kind of kettle or caldron, de- 
pending from the roof, over the fire, simmering 
some heads of unchristened children, limbs of 
executed malefactors, &c. for the business of the 
night. — It was, in foi a penny, in for a pound, 
with the honest ploughman : so without cere- 
mony he unhooked the caldron from off the fire, 
and pouring out the damnable ingredients, in- 
verted it on his head, and carried it fairly home, 
where it remained long in the family, a living 
evidence of the truth of the story. 



Another story which . can prove to be eqi'Al- 
ly authentic, was as follows ; — 

On a market day in the town of Ayr, a farm- 
er from Carrick, and consequently whose way 
lay by the very gate of Alloway kiik-yard, in 
order to cross the river Doon at the old bridge, 
which is about two or three hundred yards fur- 
ther on than the said gate, had been detained 
by his business, till by the time he reached Al- 
loway V was the wizard hour, between night 
and morning. 

Though he was terrified, with a blaze stream- 
ing from the kirk, yet as it is a well-known fac-t 
that to turn back on these occasions is running 
by far the greatest risk of mischief, he prudent- 
ly advanced on his road. When he had reached 
the gate of the kirk-yard, he was surprised and 
entertained, through the ribs and arches of an 
old gothic window, which still faces the high- 
way, to see a dance of witches merrily footing it 
round their old sooty blackguard master, who 
was keeping them all alive with the power of 
his bagpipe. The farmer stopping his horse to 
observe them a little, could plainly descry the 
faces of many old women of his acquaintance 
and neighbourhood. How the gentleman was 
dressed, tradition does not say ; but the ladies 
were all in their smocks : and one of them hap- 
pening unluckily to have a smock which was 
considerably too short to answer all the purpose 
of that piece of dress, our fa» mer was so tickled, 
that he involuntarily buret out, with a loud 
laugh, " Weel luppen, Maggy wi' the short 
sark!" and recollecting himself, instantly spur- 
red his horse to the top of his speed. I need 
not mention the universally known fact, that no 
diabolical power can pursue you beyond the 
middle of a running stream. Lucky it was for 
the poor farmer that the river Doon was so near, 
for notwithstanding the speed of his horse, which 
was a good one, against he reached the middle 
of the arch of the bridge, and consequently the 
middle of the stream, the pursuing, vengeful hags, 
were so close at his heels, that one of them actual- 
ly sprung to seize him ; but it was too late, no- 
thing was on her side of the stream but the 
horse's tail, which immediately gave way at her 
infernal grip, as if blasted by a stroke of light- 
ning ; but the farmer was beyond her reach. 
However, the unsightly, tail-less condition ol 
the vigorous steed was to the last hour of the 
noble creature's life, an awful warning to the 
Carrick farmers, not to stay too late in Ayr 
markets. 

The last relation I shall give, though equally 
true, is not so well identified as the two formp-. 
with regard to the scene ; but as the best autho- 
rities give it for Alloway, I shall relate it. 

On a summer's evening, about the time that 
nature puts on her sables to mourn the expisty 
of the chearful day, a shepherd buy i.ielonging 
to a farmer in the immediate neighbouihoo:! of 
Alloway kirk, had just folded his charge, and 
was returning home. As he passed the kirk, 
in the adjoining field, he fell in wiih a crew c 



364 



BURNS' WORKS. 



men and women, wlio were busy pulling stems 
of the plant ragwort. He observed that as 
each person pulled a ragwort, he or she got 
astride of it, and called out, " up horsie !" on 
whii-h the ragwort flew off, like Pegasus, 
through the air with its rider. The foolish boy 
likewise pulled his ragwort, and cried with the 
rest, " up horsie!" and, strange to tell, away 
he flew with the company. The first stage at 
which the cavalcade stopt, was a merchant's 
wine cellar in Bourdeaux, where, without say- 
ing by your leave, they quaffed away at the best 
the cellar could aff"ord, until the morning, foe to 
the imps and works of darkness, threatened to 
throw light on the matter, and frightened them 
from their carousals. 

The poor shepherd lad, being equally a 
stranger to the scene and the liquor, heedlessly 
got hiraselt drunk ; and when the rest took 
horse, he fell asleep, and was found so next day 
by some of the people belonging to the merchant. 
Somebody that understood Scotch, asking him 
what he was, he said he was such-a-one's herd 
in Alloway, and by same means or other getting 
home again, he lived long to tell the world the 
wondrous tale. ' 

I am, &c. &c.* 



No. CLXV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

bth January, 1792. 

You see my hurried life, Madam : I can only 
command starts of time ; however, 1 am glad 
of one thing ; since I finished the other sheet, 
the political blast that threatened my welfare 
IS overblown, I have corresponded with Com- 
missioner Graham, for the Board had made 
me the subject of their animadversions ; and 
now I have the pleasure of informing you, that 
all is set to rights in that quarter. Now, as to 
these informers, may the devil be let loose to 

but hold ! I was praying most fervently 

in my last sheet, and I must not so soon fall a 
swearing in this. 

Alas ! how little do the wantonly or idly of- 
ficious think what mischief they do by their 
malicious insinuations, indirect impertinence, 
or thoughtless blabbings. What a difference 



* This letter wa' copied from the Censu^a Litcnaria, 
1786. It was conununicated to the editor of that work 
by Mr. Gilchrist of Stamford, with the following re- 
mark. 

" In a collection of miscellaneous papers of the An- 
tiquary Grose, which I purchased a few years since, 
I round the following ieuer written to hini by Burns, 
when the former was collecting the Antiquities of Scot- 
land : When I premise it was on the second tradition 
that he afterw;irds formed the inimitable tale of " fam 
O'Shanter," I cannot doubt of its Deing read with great 
interest. It were " burning day-light" to point out to 
a reader, (and who is not a reader of Burns ?/ the 
thoughts he afterwards transplanted into the rhythmi- 
tul narra ve." 

O. G. 



there is in intrinsic worth, candour, benevor 
lence, generosity, kindness — in all the charities 
and all the virtues, between one class of human 
beings and another. For instance, the amiable 
circle I so lately mixed with in the hosoitable 

hall of D , their generous hearts — their un- 

contaminated dignified minds — their informed 
and polished understandings — what a contrast, 
when compared — if such comparing were not 
downright sacrilege — with the soul of the mis- 
creant who can deliberately plot the destruc- 
tion of an honest man that never offended him, 
and with a grin of satisfaction see the unfortu- 
nate being, his faithful wife, and prattling inno- 
cents, turned over to beggary and ruin ! 

Your cup, ray dear Madam, arrived safe. I 
had two worthy fellows dining with me the 
other day, when 1, with great formality, pro- 
duced my whigmeleerie cup, and told them that 
it had been a family-piece among the descend- 
ants of Sir William Wallace. This roused such 
an enthusiasm, that they insisted on bumpering 
the punch round in it ; and by and bye, never 
did your great ancestor lay a Southron more 
completely to rest than for a time did your 
cup my two friends. Apropos, this is the sea- 
son of wishing. May God bless you, my dear 
friend, and bless me the humblest and sincerest 
of your friends, by granting you yet many re- 
turns of the season ! May all good things at- 
tend you and yours wherever they are scattered 
over the earth ! 



No. CLXVI. 

TO MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE, 
PRINTER. 

Dumfries, 22d January, 1792. 
I SIT down, my dear Sir, to introduce a young 
lady to you, and a lady in the first ranks of 
fashion too. What a task ! to you — who care 
no more for the herd of animals called young 
ladies, than you do for the herd of animals 
called young gentlemen. To you — who despise 
and detest the groupings and combinations of 
fashion, as an idiot painter that seems Indus- 
i trious to place staring fools and unprincipled 
i knaves in the foreground of his picture, while 
i men of sense and honesty are too often thrown 
i in the dimmest shades. Mrs. Riddel, who 
will take this letter to town with her and send 
it to you, is a character that, even in your own 
way, as a naturalist and a philosopher, would 
be an acquisition to your acquaintance. The 
lady too is a votaiy of the muses ; and as I 
think myself somewlvat of a judge in my own 
trade, I assure you that her verses, always cor- 
rect, and often elegant, are much beyond the 
conmion run of the lady -poetesses of the day 
She is a great admirer of your book, and hear- 
ing me say that I was acquainted with you, slit 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



365 



oej^ged to be known to you, as she Is just going 
to pay her first visit to our Caledonian capital. 
I told her that her best way was to desire her 
near relation, and your intimate friend, Craig- 
jarroch, to have you at his house while she was 
there ; and lest you might think of a lively West 
Indian girl of eighteen, as girls of eighteen too 
often deserve to be thought of, I should take 
care to remove that prejudice. To be impar- 
tial, however, in appreciating the lady's merits, 
she has one unlucky fJiiling, a failing which 
you will easily discover, as she seems rather 
pleased with indulging in it ; and a failing that 
you will as easily pardon, as it is a sin which 
very much besets yourself; — where she dislikes 
or despises, she is apt to make no more a se- 
cret of it, than where she esteems and respects, 
I will not present you with the unmeaning 
compliments of the season, but I will send you 
my warmest wishes and most ardent prayers, 
that FORTUNE may never throw your subsist- 
ENCK to the mercy of a knave, or set your 
CHARACTER on the judgment of a fool, but 
that, upright and erect, you may walk to an 
honest grave, where men of letters shall say, 
here lies a man who did honour to science ; and 
men of worth shall say, here lies a man who did 
konour to human nature ' 



No. CLXVII. 

TO MR. W. NICOLL. 

20th February, 1792. 
O THOU, wisest among the wise, meridian 
blaze of prudence, full moon of discretion, and 
chief of many counsellors ! How infinitely is 
thy puddle-headed, rattle-headed, wrong-head- 
ed, round-headed slave indebted to thy super- 
eminent goodness, that from the luminous path 
of thy own right-lined rectitude, thou lookest 
benignly down on an eriing wretch, of whom 
the zig-zag wanderings defy all the powers of 
calculation, from the simple copulation of units, 
up to the hidden mysteries oi fluxions ! May 
one feeble ray of that light of wisdom which 
darts from thy sensorium, straight as the arrow 
j of heaven, and bright as the meteor of inspira- 
1 tion, may it be my portion, so that I may be 
I less unworthy of the face and favour of that fa- 
j ther of proverbs an'l master of maxims, that 
antipode of folly, and magnet among the sages, 
tlie wise and witty Willie Nicoll ! Amen ! Amen ! 
Yea, so be it ! 

For me ! I am a beast, a reptile, and know 
nothing ' From the cave of my ignorance- 
iinid the fogs of my dulness, and pestilential 
fumes of my political heresies, I look up to 
thee, as doth a toad through the iron-barred 
lucerne of a pestiferous dungeon, to the cloud- 
less glory of a summer sun ! Sorely sighing 
In bitter'iess of soul I say, when shall nav name 



be the quotation of tne wise, and my counte- 
nance be the delight of the godly, like the illus 
trious lord of'Laggan's many hills?* As foi 
him, his works are perfect ; never did the pen 
of calumny blur the fair page of his reputation, 
nor the bolt of hatred fly at his dwelling. 



Thou mirror of purity, when shall the elfine 
lamp of my glimmerous understanding, purged 
from sensual appetites and gross de*ires, shine 
like the constellation of thy intellectual powers. 
— As for thee, thy thoughts are pure, and thy 
lips are holy. Never did the unhallowed breath 
of the powers of darkness, and the pleasures of 
darkness, pollute the sacred flame of thy sky- 
descended and heaven-bound desires ; never did 
the vapours of impurity stain the unclouded 
serene of thy cerulean imagination. O that 
like thine were the tenor of my life, like thine 
the tenor of my conversation ! then should no 
friend fear for my strength, no enemy rejoice in 
my weakness ! Then should I lie down and 
rise up, and none to make me afraid. — May thy 
pity and thy prayer be exercised for, O thou 
lamp of wisdom and mirror of morality ! thy 
devoted slave.f 



No. CLXVIII. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Sd March, 1792. 

Since I wrote to you the last lugubrious 
sheet, I have not had time to write you farther. 
When I say that I had not time, that, as usual, 
means, that the three demons, indolence, busi- 
ness, and ennui, have so completely shared my 
hours among them, as not to leave me a five 
minutes fragment to take up a pen in. 

Thank heaven, I feel my spirits buo)-ng up- 
wards with the renovating year. Now I shall 
in good earnest take up Thomson's songs. I 
dare say he thinks I have used him unkindly, 
and I must own with too much appearance of 
truth. Apropos, do you know the much admir- 
ed old Highland air called The Sutor's Doch- 
ter ? It is a first-rate favourite of mine, and I 
have written what I reckon one of my best songs 
to it. I will send it to you as it was sung with 
great applause in some fashionable circles by 
Major Robertson, of Lude, who was here with 
his corps. 



There is one commission that I must trouble 
you with. I lately lost a vahiable seal, a pre- 



• Mr. Nicoll. 

t This strain of irony was excited by a letter of Mr 
NicoU's containing good advice. 



^G6 



BURNS' WORKS. 



sent from a departed frlenvi, which vexes me 
nuir.h, I have gotten one of your Highland 
pebnles, which I fancy would make a very de- 
cent one ; and I want to cut my armorial bear- 
ing on it ; wL' you be so obliging as inquire 
what will be the expense of such a business ? I 
do not know that my name is matriculated, as 
the heralds call it, at all ; but I have invented 
arms for myself, so you know I shall be chief of 
the name ; and by courtesy of Scotland, will 
likewise be entitled to supporters. These, how- 
ever, I do not intend having on my seal. I am 
a bit of a herald ; and shall give you, secundum 
artcm, my arms. On a field, azure, a holly 
bush, seeded, proper, in base ; a shepherd's pipe 
and crook, saltierwise, also proper, in chief. On 
a wreath of the colours, a wood-lark perching 
on a sprig of bay-tree, proper : for crest, two 
mottoes, round the top of the crest. Wood-notes 
wild. At the bottom of the shield, in the usual 
place, Setter a wee hush than nae bield. By 
the shepherd's pipe and crook I do not mean the 
nonsense of painters of Arcadia ; but a Stock 
and Horn, and a Club, such as you see at the 
head of Allan Ramsay, in Allan's quarto edition 
of the Gentle Shepherd. By the bye, do you 
know Allan? He must be a urin of very great 
genius. — Why is he not more known? — Has he 
no patrons ? or do " Poverty's cold wind and 
crushing rain beat keen and heavy" on him ? 
I once, and but once, got a glance of that noble 
edition of the noblest pastoral in the world, and 
dear as it was, I mean dear as to my pocket, I 
would have bought it ; but I was told that it 
was printed and engraved for subscribers only. 
He is the only artist who has hit genuine pas- 
toral costume. What, my dear Cunningham, 
is there in riches, that they narrow and harden 
the heart so ? I think that were I as rich as the 
sun, I should be as generous as the day ; but 
as I have no reason to imagine my soul a nobler 
one than any other man's, I must conclude that 
wealth imparts a bird-lime quality to the pos- 
sessor, at which the man, in his native poverty, 
would have revolted. What has led me to this, 
is the idea of such merit as Mr. Allan possesses, 
and such riches as a nabob or governor-contrac- 
tor possesses, and why they do not form a mu- 
tual league. Let wealth shelter and cherish un- 
orotected merit, and the gratitude and celebrity 
j :£ that merit will richly repay it. 



1 j No. CLXIX. 

I I 

TO MR. T. CLARKE, Edinburgh. 

July 16, 1792. 
Mr. Burns begs leave to present his most 
respectful compliments to ]\L-. Clarke. — Mr B. 
some time ago did himself the honour of writ- 
ing M C. le.^uecting coming out to the coun- 



try to give a little musical itiStructiou m ahi^h 
ly respectable family, where Mr. C. may have 
his own terms, and may be as happy as indo- 
lence, the Devil, and the gout will permit him. 
Mr. B. knows well how Mr. C. is engaged with 
another family ; but cannot Mr. C. find two or 
three weeks to spare to each of them ? Mr. B. 
is deeply impressed with, and awfully conscious 
of, the high importance of Mr. C's time, whe- 
ther in the winged moments of symphonious 
exhibition, at the keys of harmony, while list- 
ening Seraphs cease their own less delightful 
strains ; — or in the drowsy hours of slumberous 
repose, in the arms of his dearly-beloved elbow- 
chair, where the frowsy, but potent power of 
indolence, circumfuses her vapours round, and 
sheds her dews on, the head of her darling son. 
— But half a line conveying half a meaning 
from Mr. C. would niiake Mr. B. the very hap- 
piest of mortals. 



No. CLXX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Annan Water Foot, 22d August, 1792. 
Do not blame me for it, Madam — my own 
conscience, hackneyed and weather-beaten as it 
is, in watching and reproving my vagaries, fol- 
lies, indolence, &c. has continued to blame and 
punish me sufficiently. 



Do you think it possible, my dear and hon 
oured friend, that I could be so lost to gratitude 
for many favours ; to esteem for much worth, 
and to the honest, kind, pleasurable tie of, now, 
old acquaintance, and I hope and am sure of pro- 
gressive increasing friendship — as, fm a single 
day, not to think of you — to ask the I ,iN s v\'hat 
they are doing and about to do with u.y much 
loved friend and her wide-scattered connexions, 
and to beg of them to be as kind to you and 
yours as they possibly can. 

Apropos (though how it is apropos, T have 
not leisure to explain), do you know that I ara 
almost in love with an acquaintance of yours ? 
— Almost ! said I — I am in love, souse ! over 
head and ears, deep as the most unfathomable | 
abyss of the boundless ocean ; but the word, | 
Love, owing to the intermingled oms of the good 
and the bad, the pure and the impure, in this 
world, being rather an equivocal term for ex- 
pressing one's sentiments and sensations, I must 
do justice to the sacred purity of my attachment 
Know then, that the heart-struck awe ; he dis- 
tant humble approach ; the delight we should 
have in gazing upon and listening to a Messen- 
ger of Heaven, appearing in aJl the unspotted 
purity of his celestial home, among the coarse, 
polluted, far inferior sons of men, to deliver tc 
them tidings that make their hearts swim in joy 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



36'* 



and their imaginations soar in transport — such, 
80 delighting, and so pure, were the emotions of 
my soul on meetmg the other day with Miss 

L — B — , your neighbour at M Mr. B. 

with his two daughters, accompanied by Mr. H. 
of G. passing through Dumfries a few days ago, 
on their way to England, did me the honour of 
calling on me ; on which I took my horse 
(though God knows I could ill spare the time), 
aiid accompanied them fourteen or fifteen miles, 
and dined and spent the day with them. 'Twas 
about nine, I think, when I left them ; and rid- 
ing home, I composed the following ballad, of 
which you will probably think you have a dear 
l)ingciin, as it will coast you another groat of 
postage. You must know that there is an old 
ballad beginning with 



My bonnie Lizzie Baillie 
I'll row thee in my plaidie, 



&c. 



So I parodied it as follows, which is literally the 
first copy, " unanointed unannealed," as Ham- 
let says. — Sec p. 194. 

So much for ballads. I regret that you are 
gone to the east country, as I am to be in Ayr- 
shire in about a fortnight. This world of ours, 
nofwithbitanding it has many good things in it, 
yet it has ever had this curse, that two or three 
people who would be the happier the oftener tliey 
met together, are, almost without exceptiun al- 
ways so placed as never to meet but once in 
twice a-year, which, considering the few yLa(s 
of a man's life, is a very great '* evil under the 
sun," which I do not recollect that Solomon liig 
nieationed in his catalogue of the miseries of man. 
I hope and believe that there is a state of exist- 
ence beyond the grave, where the worthy of this 
life will renew their former intimacies, with this 
endearing addition, that " we meet to part no 
more." 



" Tell us, ye dead, 
Will none of you in pity disclose the secret 
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be !" 

A thousand times have I made this apostrophe 
to the departed sons of men, but not one of them 
has ever thought fit to answer the question. 
" O that some courteous ghost would blab it 
out !" — but it cannot be ; you and I, my friend, 
must make the experiment by surselves and for 
ourselves. However, I am so convinced that an 
unshaken faith in the doctrines of religion is not 
only necessary, by making us better men, but al- 
so by making us happier men, that I shall take 
every care that your little god-son, and every 
little creature that shall call me father, shall be 
tauglit them. 

So ends this heterogeneous letter, written at 
this wild place of the world, in the intervals of 
my labour of discharging a vessel of rum from 
Antigua. 



No. CLXVII 
TO MR. CUNMNGHAM. 

Dumfries, lOth September, 1792. 

No ! I will not attempt an apology. — Amid 
all my hurry of business, grinding the face of 
the publican and the sinner on the merciless 
wheels of the excise ; making ballads, and then 
drinking, and singing them ; and, over and 
above all, the correcting the press-work of two 
different publications ; still, still I might have 
stolen five minutes to dedicate to one of the first 
of my friends and fellow-creatures. I might 
have done, as I do at present, snatched an hour 
near " witching time of night" — and scrawled 
a page or two. I might have congratulated my 
friend on his marriage ; or I might have thank- 
ed the Caledonian archers for the honour they 
have done me (though to do myself justice, I 
intended to have done both in rhyme, else I had 
done both long ere now. ) Well, then, here is 
to your good health ! for you must know, I 
have set a nipperkin of toddy by me, just by 
way of spell, to keep away the meikle horned 
Deil, or any of his subaltern imps who may be 
on their nightly rounds. 

But what shall I write to you ? — " The voice 
said cry," and I said, '♦ what shall I cry?" — O, 
thou spirit ! whatever thou art, or wherever 
ihou makest thyself visible ! be thou a bogle by 
the eerie side of an auld thorn, in the dreary 
glen through which the herd callan maun bicker 
in his gloamin route frae the faulde ! Be thou a 
brownie, set, at dead of night, to thy task by 
the blazing ingle, or in the solitary barn where 
the repercussions of thy iron flail affright thy- 
self, as thou performest the work of twenty of 
the sons of men, ere the cock-crowing summon 
thee to thy ample cog of substantial brose. — Be 
thou a kelpie, haunting the ford or ferry, in the 
starless night, mixing thy laughing yell with the 
howling of the storm, and the roaring of the 
flood, as thou viewest the perils and miseries of 
man on the foundering horse, or in the tumb- 
ling boat ! — Or, lastly, be thou a ghost, paying 
thy nocturnal visits to the hoary ruins of decay- 
ed grandeur ; or performing thy mystic rites in 
the shadow of thy time-worn church, while the 
moon looks, without a cloud, on the silent, 
ghastly dwellings of the dead around thee ; or 
taking thy stand by the bedside of the villain, 
or the murderer, pourtraying on his dreaming 
fancy, pictures, dreadful as the horrors of un- 
veiled hell, and terrible as the wrath of incensed 
Deity !— Come, thou spirit, but not in these 
horrid forms ; come with the milder, gentle, 
easy inspirations, which thou breathest round 
the wig of a prating advocate, or the tete of a 
tea-sipping gossip, while their tongues run at 
the light-horse gallop of clishmaclaver for ever 
and ever — come and assist a poor devil who is 
quite jaded in the attempt to share half an idea 
among half a hundred words ; to fill up lour 
quarto pages, while he has not got one single 



S68 



BURNS' WORKS. 



■entence of recollection, inforraatioa, or remark 
worth putting pen to paper for. 

T feel, I feel tl e presence of supernatural as- 
sistance ! circled in the embrace of my elbow- 
chair, my breast labours, like the bloated Sybil 
on her three- footed stool, and like her too, la- 
bours with Nonsense Nonsense, auspicious 

name ! Tutor, friend, and finger-post in the 
mystic mazes of law ; the cadaverous paths of 
physic ; and particularly in the sightless soar- 
ings of SCHOOL DIVINITY, who, leaving Com- 
mon Sense confornded at his strength of pinion, 
Reason delirious with eyeing his giddy flight, 
and Truth crei^ping back into the bottom of her 
well, cursing the hour that ever she offered her 
scorned alliance to the wizard power of Theolo- 
gic Vision — raves abroad on all the winds. " On 
earth Discord ! a gloomy Heaven above, open- 
ing her jealous gates to the nineteen thousandth 
part of the tithe of mankind ! and below, an in- 
escapable and inexorable hell, expanding its le- 
viathan jaws for tli(- vast residue of mortals ! ! !" 
— O doctrine ! comfortable and healing to the 
weary, wounded soul of a man ! Ye sons and 
daughters of affliction, ye pauvres miserables, to 
whom day brings no pleasure, and night yields 
no rest, be coniforted ! " *Tis but one to nine- 
teen hundred thousand that your situation will 
mend in this world ;'' so, alas I the experience 
of the poor and the needy too often affirms ; and 
'tis nineteen hundred thousand to one, by the 

dogmas of , that you will be damned 

eternally in the world to come ! 

But of all Nonsense, Religious Nonsense is 
the most nonsensical ; so enough, and more 
than enough of it. Only, by the bye, will you, 
©r can you tell me, my dear Cunningham, why 
a sectarian turn of mind has always a tendency 
to narrow and iliiberalize the heart ? They are 
orderly ; they may be just ; nay, I have known 
them merciful : but still your children of sanc- 
tity move among their fellow-creatures with a 
nostril snuffing putrescence, and a foot spurning 
filth, in short, with a conceited dignity that 

your titled 

. . . or any other of your Scottish lordlings 
of seven centuries standing, display when they 
accidentally mix among the many-aproned sons 
of nieili;inical life. I remember, in my plough- 
boy (lays, I could not conceive it possible that a 
noble lord could be a fool, or a godly man could 

be a knave How ignorant are plough-boys ! — 

Nay, I have since discovered that a yodly wo- 
man may be a I — But hold — Here's t'ye 

again — this ruin is generous Antigua, so a very 
unfit menstruum for scandal. 

Apropos, how do you like, I mean realhj like 
the married life ! Ah, my friend ! matrimony is 
quite a different thing from what your love -sick 
youths and sighing girls take it to be ! But 
marriage, we are told, is appointed by God, and 
\ shall never quarrel with any of his institutions. 
I am a husband of older standing than you, and 
Bhall give you my ideas of the conjugal state — 
(«n passant* you knov/ I am no Latinist, is not 



conjugal A&Y\w&^ ivom jicgum, a /oke '') Well 
then, the scale of j^ood-wifeship I divide intc 
ten parts. — Good-nature, four ; Good Sense, 
two ; Wit, one ; Personal Charms, viz. a sweet 
face, eloquent eyes, fine limbs, graceful carriage, 
(I would add a fine waist too, but that is so 
soon spoilt, you know), all these, one ; as foi 
the other qualities belonging to, or attending on, 
a wile, such as Fortune, Connections, Educa- 
tion, (I mean education extraordinary), FamiW 
Blood, &c. divide the two remaining degrees 
among them as you please ; only, remember 
that all these minor properties mustbe express- 
ed by fractionsy for there is not any one of 
them, in the aforesaid scale, entitled to the dig- 
nity of an integer. 

As for the rest of my fancies and reveries — 
how 1 lately met with Miss Lesly Baillie, the 
most beautiful, elegant woman in the world 
— how I accompanied her and her father's fa- 
mily fifteen miles on their journey, out of pure 
devotion, to admire the loveliness of the works 
of God, in such an unequalled display of thetr 
— how, in galloping home at night, I made a 
ballad on her, of which these two stanzas make 
a part — 

Thou, bonnie Lesly, art a queen, 
Thy subjects we before thee ; 

Thou, bonnie Lesly, art divine, 
The. hearts o' men adore thee. 

The very Deil he could na scaith 

Whatever wad belang thee ! 
He'd look into thy bonnie face 

And say, " I canna vvrang thee. 

— behold all these things are written in the 
chronicles of my imagination, and shall be read 
by thee, my dear friend, and by thy beloved 
spouse, my other dear friend, at a more conve- 
nient season. 

Now, to thee, and to thj aefore-designed bo- 
so?rt-companion, be given the precious things 
brought forth by the sun, and the precious 
things brought forth by the moon, and the be- 
nignest influence of the stars, and the living 
streams which flow from the fountains of life, 
and by the tree of life, for ever and ever ! — 
Amen ! 



No. CLXVIIL 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, 24'th September, 1792. 
I HAVE this moment, my dear Madam, yours 
of the twenty-third. All your other kind re- 
proaches, your news, &c. are out of my head 
when I read and think on Mrs. H 's situa- 
tion. Good God ! a heart-wounded helpless 
young woman — in a strange, foreign laud, aud 



I I 



CGRRESPOJNDEISCE. 



that laud convulsed with every horror, that can 
harrow the human feelings — sick — looking, 
longing for a comforter, but finding none — a 
mother's feelings, too — but it is too much : he 
who wounded (he only can) may He heal !* 



I wish the farmer great joy of his new ac- 
quisition to his family 

I cannot say that I give him joy of his life as a 
farmer. "lis, as a farmer paying a dear, un- 
conscionable rent, a cursed life ! As to a laird 
farming; his own property ; sowing his own 
corn in hope ; and reaping it, in spite of brittle 
weather, in gladness; knowing that none can 
say unto him, " what dost thou ?" — fattening 
his herds ; shearing his flocks ; rejoicing at 
Christmas ; and begetting sons and daughters, 
until he be the venerated, grey-haired leader of 
a little tribe — 'tis a heavenly life ! but Devil 
take the life of reaping the fruits that another 
must eat. 

Well, your kind wishes will be gratified, as 
to seeing me when I make my Ayrshire visit. 

I cannot leave Mrs. B , until her nine 

months* race is run, which may perhaps be in 
three or four weeks. She, too, seems determin- 
ed to make me the patriarchal leader of a band 
However, if Heaven will be so obliging as let 
me have them on the proportion of three boys 
to one girl, I shall be so much the more pleased. 
[ hope, if I am spared with them, to show a set 
of boys that will do honour to my cares and 
name ; but I am not equal to the task of rear- 
•ng girls. Besides, I am too poor ; a girl should 
always have a fortune. Apropos, your little 
god-son is thriving charmingly, but is a very 
devil. He, though two years younger, has com- 
pletely mastered his brother. Robert is indeed 
the mildest, gentlest creature I ever saw. He 
has a most surprising memory, and is quite the 
pride of his schoolmaster. 

You know how readily we get into prattle up- 
on a subject dear to our heart : you can excuse 
t. God bless you and yours ! 



No. CLXIX. 
TO THE SAME. 

UTJPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN ON THE 
D2ATH OF MRS. K , HER DAUGHTER. 

I HAD been from home, and did not receive 
your letter until my return the other day. 
vVhat shall I say to comfort you, my much-va- 
lued, much-afflicted friend ! I can but grieve 
with you ; consolation I have none to offer, ex- 



♦ This much-lamented ladv was gone to the south ' 
of France with her infant son, wheie she died soon iif- 1 



W2 



cept that which religion holds out to the chi]-> 
<lren of affliction — children of affliction /— 
how just the expression ! and like every other 
family, they have matters among them which 
they hear, see, and feel in a serious, all-impor- 
tant manner, of which the world has not, nor 
cares to have, any idea. The world looks in- 
differently on, makes the passing remark, and 
proceeds to the next novel occurrence. 

Alas, Madam ! who would wish for many 
years ! What is it but to drag existence until 
our joys gradually expire and leave us in a night 
of misery ; like the gloom which blots out the 
stars one by one, hom the face of night, and 
leaves us, without a ray of comfort, in the howl- 
ing waste ! 

I am interrupted, and must leave off. You 
shall soon hear from me again. 



No. CLXX. 
TO THE SAME. 

Dumfries, 6th December, 1792. 

I SHALL be in Ayrshire, I think, next week ; 
and if at all possible, I shall certainly, my much- 
esteemed friend, have the pleasure of visiting at 
Dunlup-house. 

Alas, Madam ! how seldom do we me meet 
in this world, that we have reason to congratu- 
late ourselves en occasions of happiness ! I have 
not passed half the ordinary term of an old man's 
life, and yet I scarcely look over the obituary of 
a newspaper, that I do not see some names that 
I have known, and which I, and other acquaint, 
anoes, little thought to meet with there so soon. 
Every other instance of the mortality of our 
kind, makes us cast an anxious look into the 
dreadful abyss of uncertainty, and shudder with 
apprehensioiis for our own fate. But of how 
different an importance are the lives of different 
individuals? Nay, of what importance is one 
period ot the same life, mure than another ? A 
iew years ago, I could have lain down in the 
dust, " careless of the voice of the morning ;" 
and now not a kw, and these most helpless in- 
dividuals, would, on losing me and my exer- 
tions, lose both their " staff and shield." By 
the way, these helpless ones have lately got an 
addition, Mrs. B. having given me a fine girl 
since I wrote you. There is a charming pas- 
sage in Thomson's Edward and Eleaiiora. 

" The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer— 
Or what need he regard his single woes?" &c. 

As I am got in the way of quotations, I shall 
give you another from the same piece, peculiar- 
ly, alas ! too peculiarly apposite, my dear Ma* 
dam, to your pre®nt frame of mind : 

" Who so unworthy but may proudly deck hln;^ 
With his fair-weather virtue, that exults 



370 



BURNS' WORKS. 



Glad o'er the summer main? Ue tempest 

comes, 
The rough winds rage aloud ; when from the 

helm 
This virtue shrinks, and in a corner lies, 
Lamenting — Heavens ! if privileged from trial, 
How cheap a thing were virtue !" 

I do not remember to have heard you men- 
tion Thomson's dramas. I pick up favourite 
quotations, apd store them in my mind as ready 
armour, offensive, or defensive, amid the struggle 
■jf this turbulent existence. Of these is one, a 
•ery favourite one, from his Alfred, 

' Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds 
And offices of life ; to life itself, 
With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose." 

Probably I have quoted some of these to you 
formerly, as indeed when I write from the heart, 
I am apt to be guilty of such repetitions. The 
compass of the heart, in the musical style of ex- 
pression, is much more bounded than that of 
the imagination ; so the notes of t\\^, former are 
extremely apt to run into one another ; but in 
return for the paucity of its compass, its few 
notes are much more sweet. I must still give 
vou another quotation, which I am almost sure 
I have given you before, but I cannot resist the 
temptation. The subject is religion — speaking 
of its importance to mankind, the author says, 

'•' 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning 
bright," &c. as in p. 49. 

I see you are in for double postage, so I shall 
e'en scribble out t'other sheet. We in this 
country here have many alarms of the reform- 
ing, or rather the republican spirit of your part 
ef the kingdom. Indeed we are a good deal in 
commotion ourselves. For me, I am a place- 
man, you know ; a very humble one indeed, 
Heaven knows, but still so much so as to gag 
me. What my private sentiments are, you wiH 
find out without an interpreter. 



I have taken up the subject in another view ; 
and the other day, for a pretty actress's benefit- 
night, 1 wrote an address, which I will give 
vou on the other page, called The Rights oj 
Woman. 



THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. 

An Occasional Address spoken by Miss FoN- 
TENELLE ou her benefit night. 

While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things, 
The fate of empires and the fall of kings, 
While Quacks of state must each produce his 

plan, 
/knd even children lisp the Riyhtn of Man ; 



Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention. 
The Rights of Woman merit some a.tentioB. 

First, in the sexes* intermix'd connexion. 
One sacred Right of Woman is protection. 
The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, 
Helpless, must fall before the blast of fate. 
Sunk to the earth, defaced its lovely form, 
Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm.— 

Our second Right's — but needless here is caiv. 
tion, 
To keep that right inviolate's the fashion, 
Each man of sense has it so full before him. 
He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis decorum.^-. 
There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, 
A time, when rough rude nen had naughty 

ways : 
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a 

riot, 
Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet. — 
Now, thank our stars ! these Gothic times are 

fled: 
Now, well-bred men — and you are all well- 
bred — 
IMost justly think (and vrt are much the gain- 
ers) 
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. • 

For Right the third, our last, our best, our 
dearest, 
That right to fluttering female hearts the near- 
est, 
Which even the Rights of Kings in low pros- 
tration 
Most humbly own — 'tis dear, dear admiration t 
In that blest sphere alone we live and move ; 
There taste that life of life — immortal love — 
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, 
'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares — 
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms, 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? 

But truce with kings, and truce with consti 
tutions, 
With bloody armaments and revolutions ; 
Let majesty your first attention summon. 
Ah ! cu ira I the Majesty of Woman ! 

I shall have the honour of receiving your cri- 
ticisms in person at Dunlop. 



No. CLXXI. I 

TO R. GRAHAM, Esq. Fintry. | 

SIR, December, 1792. 

I HAVE been surprised, confuunded, and di». 
tracted, by Mr. Mitchell, the collector, telimg 
me that he has received an order from vou» 



♦ Ironical allusion to the saturnalia of the Caled» 
Mian Hunt. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



371 



Board to inquire into my political conduct, and 
blaming me as a person disaffected to Govern- 
ment. Sir, you are a husband — and a father. — 
You know what you would feel, to see the much- 
loved wife of your bosom, and your helpless, 
prattling little ones, turned adrift into the world, 
de;^iaded and disgraced from a situation in which 
they had been respectable and respected, and left 
tilniost without the necessary support of a miser- 
able existence. Alas, Sir ! must I think that 
such, soon, will by my lot ! and from the d-mned, 
lark insinuations of hellish groundless envy too ! 
I believe. Sir, I may aver it, and in the sight of 
Omniscience, that I would not tell a deliberate 
falsehood, no, not though even worse horrors, if 
worse can be, *:han those I have mentioned, hung 
over my heaa ; and I say, that the allegation, 
whatever villain has made it, is a lie ! To the 
British Constitution, on revolution principles, 
next after my God, I am most devoutly attach- 
ed ! You, Sir, have been much and generously 
my friend.— Heaven knows how warmly I have 
felt the obligation, and how gr-tefuUy I have 
thanked you. — Fortune, Sir, has made you pow- 
srful, and me impotent ; has given you patron- 
age, and me dependence. — I would not, for my 
single self, call on your humanity ; were such 
my insular, unconnected situation, I would de- 
spise the tear that now swells in my eye — I 
could brave misfortune, I could face ruin ; for 
at the worst, " Death's thousand doors stand 
open ;" but, good God ! the tender concerns 
that I have mentioned, the claims and ties that 
I see at this moment, and feel around me, how 
they unnerve Courage, and wither Resolution ! 
To your patronage, as a man of some genius, 
you have allowed me a claim ; and your esteem, 
as an honest man, I know is my due : To these, 
Sir, permit me to appeal ; by these may I ad- 
jure you to save me from that misery which 
threatens to overwhelm me, and which, with 
my latest breath I will say it, I have not deserved. 



No. CLXXII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

BEAR MADAM, December 31, \ 792. 

A HURRY of business, thrown in heaps by my 
absence, has until now prevented my returning 
my grateful acknowledgments to the good fa- 
mily of Dunlop, and you in particular, for that 
hospitable kindness which rendered the four 
days I spent under that genial roof, four of the 
pleasantest I ever enjoyed.— Alas, my dearest 
friend ! how few and fleeting are those things 
we call pleasures ! On my road to Ayrshire, I 
spent a night with a friend whom I much valued ; 
a man whose days promised to be many ; and 
nn Saturday last we laid him in the dust ! 

January 2, 1793. 
I HAVE just received yours of the 30th, aud 



feel much for your situation. However, T hearti- 
ly rejoice in your prospect of recovery from that 
vile jaundice. As to myself, I am better, though 
not quite free of my complaint. — You must not 
think, as you seem to insinuate, that in my way 
of life I want exercise. Of that I have enough ; 
but occasional hard drinking is the devil to me. 
Against this I have again and again bent my re- 
solution, and have greatly succeeded. Tavern^! 
I have totally abandoned : it is the private par- 
ties in the family way, among the hard drinking 
gentleman of the country, that do me the mis- 
chief — but even this I have more than half given 
over. 

Mr. Corbet can be of little service to me at 
present ; at least I should be shy of applying. 
I cannot possibly be settled as a supervisor, for 
several years. I must wait the rotation of the 
list, and there are twenty names before mine.— 
I might indeed get a job of officiating, where a 
settled supervisor was ill, or aged ; but that hauls 
me from my family, as I could not remove them 
on such an uncertainty. Besides, some envious, 
malicious devil, has raised a little demur on my 
political principles, and I wish to let that mat- 
ter settle before 1 offer myself too much in the 
eye of my superiors. I have set, henceforth, 
a seal on my lips, as to these unlucky politics; 
but to you, I must breathe my sentiments. In 
this, as in every thing else, I shall shew the un- 
disguised emotions of tjie soul. War I depre- 
cate : misery and ruin to thousands, are in the 
blast that announces the destructive demon. But 



The remainder of this letter has been torn 
away by some barbarous hand. 



LETTERS, 1793. 



No. CLXXIII. 



TO MISS B- 



OF YORK. 



MADAM, 2\st March, 1793. 

Among many things for which I envy those 
hale, long-lived old fellows before the flood, is 
this in particular, that when they met with any 
body after their own heart, they had a charm- 
ing long prospect of many, many happy meet- 
ings with them in after-life. 

Now, in this short, stormy winter day of our 
fleeting existence, when you now and then, in 
the Chapter of Accidents, meet an individua. 
whose acquaintance is a real acquisition, there 
are all the probabilities against you, that you 
shall never meet with that valued character 
more. On the other hand, brief as the miser- 
able being is, it is none of the least of the mi- 
series belonging to it, that if there is any mis^ 
creant whom you hate, or creature whom you 
despise, the ill run of the chances shall be so 



372 



BURNS' WORKS. 



against you,, that in the overtakings, turnings, 
and jostlings of life, pop, at some unlucky cor- 
ner, eternally comes the wreu^J upon you, and 
will not allow your indignation or contempt a 
moment's repose. As I am a sturdy believer 
in the powers of darkness, I take those to be 
the doings of that old author of mischief, the 
devil. It is well known that he has some 
kind of short-hand way of taking down our 
thoughts, and I make no doubt that he is per- 
fectly acquainted with my sentiments respect- 
ing Miss B ; how much I admired her 

abilities and valued her worth, and how very 
fortunate I thought myself in her acquaintance. 
For this last reason, my dear Madam, I must 
entertain no hopes of the very great pleasure of 
meeting with you again. 

Miss H tells me that she is sending a 

packet to you, and I beg leave to send you the 
enclosed sonnet, though to tell you the real 
truth, the sonnet is a mere pretence, that I may 
have the opportunity of declaring with how 
much respectful esteem I have the honour to 
be, &c. 



No. CLXXIV. 

TO PATRICK MILLER, Esa. 
OF DALSWINTON. 

SIR, April, 1793. 

Mv poems having just come out in another edi- 
tion, will you do me the honour to accept of a 
copy ? A mark of my gratitude to you, as a 
gentleman to whose goodness I have been much 
indebted ; of my respect for you, as a patriot 
who, in a venal, sliding age, stands forth the 
champion of the liberties of my country ; and 
of my veneration for you, as a man, whose be- 
nevolence of heart does honour to human nature. 

There was a time. Sir, when I was your de- 
pendant : this language then would have been 
like the vile incense of flattery — I could not have 
used it. — Now that connection* is at an end, 
do me the honour to accept of this honest tribute 
fif respect from. Sir, 

Your much indebted humble Servant. 



No. CLXXV. 

TO JOHN FRANCIS ERSKINE, 
OF MAR. 



EsQ.f 



SIR, Dumfries, ]Sth April, 1793. 

Degeneiiate as human nature is said to be ; 
and in many instances, worthless and uuprinci- 



• Alluding to the time when he held the fann of El- 
lisland, as tenant to Mr. M. 

(■ This gentleman, most obligingly favoured the 
C'jitor with a perfect copy of the original letter, and 



pled it is ; stih tnere are l right examples to th« 
contrary : examples that even in the eyes of su- 
perior beings, must shed a lustre on the name of 
man. 

Such an example have I now before me, 
when you, Sir, came forward to patronise and 
befriend a distant obscure stranger, merely be- 
cause poverty had made him helpless, and his 
British hardihood of mind had provoked the ar- 
bitrary wantonness of power. My much es- 
teemed friend, Mr. Riddel of Glen riddel, has 
just read me a paragraph of a letter he hac 
from you. Accept, Sir, of the silent throb oi 
gratitude ; for words would but mock the emo- 
tions of my soul. 

You have been misinformed as to my final 
dismission from the Excise ; I am still in the 
service. — Indeed, but for the exertions of a gen- 
tleman who must be known to you, Mr. Graham 
of Fintray, a gentleman who has ever been my 
warm and generous friend, I had, without so 
much as a hearing, or the slightest previous iti- 
timation, been turned adrift, with my helpless 
family, to all the horrors of want. — Had I had 
any other resource, probably I might have saved 
them the trouble of a dismission ; but the little 
money I gained by my publication, is almost 
every guinea embarked, to save from ruin an 
only brother, who, though one of the worthiest, 
is by no means one of the most fortunate of- 
men. 

In my defence to their accusations, I said, 
that whatever might be my sentiments of re- 
publics, ancient or modern, as to Britain, I ab- 
jured the idea : — That a constitution, which, 
in its original principles, experience had proved 
to be every way fitted for our happiness in so- 
ciety, it would be insanity to sa-crifice to an un- 
tried visionary theory :— That, in consideration 
of nay being situated in a department, however 
humble, immediately in the hands of people in 
power, I had forborne taking any active part, 
either personally, or as an author, in the present 
business of reform. But that, where I must 
declare my sentiments, I would say there exist- 
ed a system of corruption between the executive 
power and the representative part of the legisla- 
ture, which boded no good to our glorious con- 
stitution ; an(i which every patriotic Briton 
must wish to see amended. — Some such senti- 
ments as these, I stated in a letter to my gene- 
rous patron Mr. Graham, which he laid befoie 
the Board at large ; where, it seems, my last 
remark gave great offence ; and one of our su- 

allowed \\m to lay it before the public — . '<: is partly 
printed in Dr. Currie's Edition. 

It will be necessary to state, that in consequence ot 
the poet's freedom of remark on public measures, ma- 
liciously misrepresented to the Board of Excise, he 
was represented as ai-tually dismissed from his office. 
— This report induced Mr. Er^kine to pro()Ose a sub- 
scription in his favour, which was refused by the poe 
with that elevetion of sentiment that peculiarly cha- 
racterised his mind, and which is so happily displayed 
in this letter. See letter No. 171, in tne present vu 
liime, written by Burns, with even more than his ac- 
customed pathos and eloquence, in further explana- 
tion — Cromfr. 



CORRESPONDExNCK 



S73 



pervisors general, a Mr. Corbet, was instructed 
to inquire on the spot, and to document me — 
" that my business was to act, not to think ; 
and that whatever might be men or measures, 
it was for me to be silent and obedient.'* 

Mr. Corbet was likewise my steady friend ; 
so between Mr. Graham and him, I have been 
partly forgiven ; only I understand that all 
hopes of my getting officially forward, are 
blasted. 

Now, Sir, to the business in which I would 
more immediately interest you. The partiality 
of my COUNTRYMEN, has brought me forward 
as a man of genius, and has given me a charac- 
ter to support. In the poet 1 have avowed 
manly and independent sentiments, which I 
trust will be found in the man. Reasons of no 
less weight than the support of a wife and fa- 
mily, have pomted out as the eligible, and si- 
tuated as I was, the only eligible line of life for 
me, my present occupation. Still my honest 
fame is my dearest concern ; and a thousand 
times have I trembled at the idea of those de- 
grading epithets that malice or misrepresenta- 
tion may affix to my name. I have often, in 
blasting anticipation, listened to some future 
hackney scribbler, with the heavy malice of sa- 
vage stupidity, exulting in his hireUng para- 
graphs — " Burns, notwithstanding the fan- 
faronade of independence to be found in his 
works, and after having been held forth to pub- 
lic view, and to public estimation as a man of 
some genius, yet, quite destitute of resources 
within himself to support his borrowed dignity, 
he dwindled into a paltry exciseman, and slunk 
out the rest of his insignificant existence in the 
meanest of pursuits, and among the vilest of 
mankind." 

In your illustrious hands. Sir, permit me to 
lodge my disavowal and defiance of these slan- 
derous falsehoods. — Burns was a poor man 
from birth, and an exciseman by necessity : but 
— I will say it ! the sterling of his honest worth, 
no poverty could debase, and his independent 
British mind, oppression might bend, but could 
not Kubdue. Have not I, to me, a more pre- 
cious stake in my country's welfare, than the 
richest dukedom in it ? — I have a large family 
of children, and the prospect of many more. I 
have three sons, who, I see already, have brought 
into the world souls ill qualified to inhabit the 
bodies of slaves. — Can I look tamely on, and 
see any machination to wrest from them the 
birthright of my boys, — the little independent 
BRITONS, in whose veins runs my own blood ? — 
No ! I will not ! should my heart's blood stream 
around my attempt to defend it ! 

Does any man tell me, that my full efforts 
can be of no service ; and that it does not be- 
long to my humble station to meddle with the 
concern of a nation ? 

I can tell him, that it is on such individuals 
as I, that a nation has to rest, both for the 
hand of support, and the eye of intelligence. 
The uninform'd mob, may swell a nation's 



bulk ; and the titled, tinsel, courtly tarong 
may be its feathered ornament ; but the num- 
ber of those who are elevated enough in life to 
reason and to reflect ; yet low enough to keep 
clear of the venal contagion of a court ; — thesa 
are a nation's strength. 

T know not how to apologize for the imper- 
tinent length of this epistle ; but one small re- 
quest 1 must ask of you farther — When you 
have honoured this letter with a perusal, please 
to commit it to the flames. Burns, in whose 
behalf you have so generously interested your- 
self, I have here, in his native colours drawn 
as he is ; !)ut should any of the people in whose 
hands is the very biead he eats, get the least 
knowledge of the picture, it would ruin the poof 
BAKU for ever ! 

My poems having just come out in another 

edition, I beg leave to present you with a copy, 

as a small mark of that high esteem and ardent 

gratitude, with which I have the honour to be. 

Sir, 

Your deeply indebted. 
And ever devoted humble servaei. 



No. CLXXVI. 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

April 26, 1798. 

I AM d — mnably out of humour, my dear 
Ainslie, and that is the reason, why I take up 
the pen to you .- 'tis the nearest way, (probatum 
est) to recover my spirits again. 

I received your last, and was nmch entertain- 
ed with it ; but I will not at this time, nor at 
any other time, answer it. — Answer a letter? I 
never could answer a letter in my life ! — I have 
written many a letter in return for letters I have 
received ; but then — they were original matter 
— spurt-away ! zig, here ; zag, there ; as if the 
Devil that, my grannie (an old woniau indeed !) 
often told me, rode in will-o'-wisp, or, iu her 
more classic phrase, Spunkie, were looking 

over my elbow Happy thought that idea has 

engendered in my head ! Spunkie — thou shalt 
henceforth be my symbol, signature, and tute- 
lary genius ! Like thee, hap-step-and-lowp, hfire- 
awa-there-awa, higglety-pigglety, pell-mell, hi- 
ther-and-yon, ram-stam, happy-go-lucky, up 
tails-a'-by-the-light-o'-the-raoon ; has been, is, 
and shall be, my progress tVirough the mosses 
and moors of this vile, bleak, barren wilderness 
of a life of ours. 

Come then my guardian spirit ! like thee, 
may I skip away, amusing myself by and at my 
own light : and if any opaque-souled lubber 
of mankind complain that my elfine, lambent, 
glimmerous wanderings have misled his stupid 
steps over precipices, or into bogs ; let the 
thick-headed Blunderbuss recollect, that he i« 
not Spunkie : — 'that 



874 



BURNS* WORKS. 



Spunkie's wanderings could not copied be ; 
Amid these perils none durst walk but he — 



I have no doubt but scholarcraft may be caught 
as a Scotsman catches the itch, — by friction. 
How else can you account for it, that born 
blockheads, by mere dint of handling books, 
grow so wise that even they themselves are 
equally convinced of and surprised at their own 
parts ? I once carried this philosophy to that 
degree that in a knot of country folks who had 
a library amongst them, and who, to the honour 
of their good sense, made me factotum in the 
business ; one of our members, a little, wise- 
looking, squat, upright, jabbering body of a 
tailor, I advised him, instead of turning over 
the leaves, to hind the hook on his hack. — Johriie 
took the hint ; and as our meetings were every 
fourth Saturday, and Pricklouse having a good 
Scots mile to walk in coming, and, of course, 
another in returning, Bodkin was sure to lay 
his hands on some heavy quarto, or ponderous 
folio, with, and under which, wrapt up in his 
grey plaid, he grew wise, as he grew weary, all 
the way home. He carried this so far, that an 
old musty Hebrew concordance which we had 
in a present from a neighbouring priest, by mere 
dint of applying it, as doctors do a blistering 
plaister, between his shoulders, Stitch, in a 
dozen pilgrimages, acquired as much rational 
theology as the said priest had done by forty 
years perusal of the pages. 

Tell me, and tell me truly, what you think 
of this theory. 

Yours, 

SPUNKIE. 



the finest part of God's works below), have 
sensations for the poetic heart that the herd of 
man are strangers to — On this last account, 
Madam, I am, as in many other thing-*, indeljt- 
ed to Mr. Hamilton's kindness in intrcUiuing 
me to you. Your lovers may view you with a 
wish, I look on you with pleasure ; their hearts, 
in your presence, may glow with desire, mine 
rises with admiration. 

That the arrows of misfortune, however they 
should, as incident to humanity, glance a sligh 
wound, may never reach your heart — thit the. 
snares of villany may never beset you in the 
i-oad of life — that innocence may hand you by 
the path of honour to the dwelling of peace, 
is the sincere wish of him who has the honour 
to be, &c. 



No. CLXXVn. 
TO MISS K 

MADAM, 

Pf-RMiT me to present you with the enclosed 
song as a small though grateful tribute for the 
honour of your acquaintance. I have, in these 
verses, attempted some faint sketches of your 
portrait in the unembellished simple manner of 
descriptive truth. — Flattery, I leave to your 
lovERS, whose exaggerating fancies may make 
them imagine you still nearer perfection than 
you really are. 

Poets, Madam, of all mankind, feel most for- 
cibly the powers of beauty ; as, if they are 
really poets of nature's making, their feelings 
must be finer, and their taste more delicate 
than most of the world In the cheerful bloom 
of SPRING, or the pensive mildness of autumn; 
the grandeur of summer, or the hoary majesty 
of WINTER ; the poet feels a charm unknown to 
the rest of his species. Even the sight of a fine 
flower, or the company of a fine woman (b^ fa. 



No. CLXXVIII. 

TO LADY GLENCAIRN. 

my lady, 

The honour you have done your poor poet, 
in writing him so very obliging a letter, and the 
pleasure the enclosed beautiful verses have given 
him, came very seasonably to his aid amid the 
cheerless glooai and sinking despondency of dis- 
eased nerves and December weather (supposed 
Decemher, 1793). As to forgetting the family 
of Glencairn, Heaven is my witness with wha 
sincerity I could use those old verses which pieasi 
me more in their rude simplicity than the mt 
elegant lines I ever saw. 

If thee Jerusalem I forget. 

Skill part from my right hand. — 

My tongue to my mouth's roof let cleave^ 

If I do thee forget 
Jerusalem, and thee above 

My chief joy do not set. — 

When I am tempted to do any thing imp^* 
per, I dare not, because I look on myself as ao 
countable to your ladyship and family. Iltr^' 
and then when I have the honour to be calleJ 
to the tables of the great, if I happen tn meet 
with any mortification from the stately stupidity 
of self-sufficient squires, or th^ luxuriant inso- 
lence of upstart nabobs, I get above the crea- 
tures by calling to remembrance that I am pa- 
tronized by the Noble House of Glencairn ; and 
at gala-times, such as New-year's day, a chris- 
tening, or the Kirn-night, when ray punch-bowl 
is brought from its dusty corner and tilled up in 
honour of the occasion, I begin with, — The 
Countess of Glencairn ! My good woman with 
the enthusiasm of a grateful heart, next cries. 
My Lord ! acd so the toast goes on until I end 
with Lady Harriets little angel! whose epi 
cnplaiHiuni "^ haye pledged myself to write. 

Ti nc« ' rsceived your ladyship's letter, I wa« 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



375 



Just in the act of transcribing for you some verses 
I have lately composed ; and meant to have sent 
them my first leisure hour, and acquainted you 
with my late change of life. I mentioned to my 
lord, my fears concerning my farm. Those 
fears were indeed too true ; it is a bargain would 
have ruined me but for the lucky circumstance 
of my having an excise commission. 

People may talk as they please, of the igno- 
miny of the excise ; ^30 a year will support 
my wife and children and keep me independent 
of the world ; and I would much rather have it 
said that my profession borrowed credit from me, 
than that I borrowed credit from my profession. 
Another advantage I have in this business, is 
the knowledge it gives me of the various shades 
of human character, consequently assisting me 
vastly in my poetic pursuits. I had the most 
ardent enthusiasm for the muses when nobody 
knew me, but myself, and that ardour is by no 
means cooled now that ray Lord Glencairn's 
goodness has introduced me to all the world. 
Not that I am in haste for the press. I have no 
idea of publishing, else I certainly had consulted 
my nobie generous patron ; but after acting the 
part of an honest man, and supporting my fa- 
mily, my whole wishes and views are directed 
.o poetic pursuits. I am aware that though I 
were to give performances to the world sujierior 
.o my former works, still if they were of the 
same kind with those, the comparative recep- 
tion they would meet with would mwrtify me. 
I have turned my thoughts on the drama. I do 
not mean the stately buskin of the tragic nmse. 



Does not your ladyship think that an Edinburgh 
theatre would be more amused with atfi'ctation, 
folly and whim of true Scottish growth, than 
manners which by far the greatest part of the 
audience can only know at second hand ? 
I have the honour to be 

Your ladyship's ever devoted 
And grateftil humble servant. 



a talent for poetiy ; none ever despised it who 
had pretensions to it. The fates and characters 
of the rhyming tribe often employ my thoughts 
when I am disposed to be melancholy. There 
is not, among all the martyrologies that ever 
were penned, so rueful a narrative as the lives of 

the poets In the comparative view of wretches, 

the criterion is not what they are doomed to suf- 
fer, but how they are formed to bear. Take a 
being of our kind, give him a stronger imagi- 
nation and a more delicate sensibility, which be- 
tween them will ever engender a more ungovern- 
able set of passions than are the usual lot of man ; 
implant in him an irresistible impulse to some idle 
vagary, such as, arranging wild flowers in fan- 
tastical nosegays, tracing the grasshopper to his 
haunt by his chirping song, watching the frisks 
of the little minnows in the sunny pool, or 
hunting after the intrigues of butterflies. — in 
short, send him adrift after some pursuit which 
shall eternally mislead him from the path of 
lucre, and yet curse him with a keener relish 
than any man living, for the plasures that lucre 
can purchase ; lastly, fill up the measure of his 
woes by bestowing on him a spurning sense of 
his own dignity, and you have created a wight 
nearly as miserable as a poet. To you. Madam, 
I need not recount the fairy pleasures the muse 
bestows to counterbalance this catalogue of" evils. 
Bewitching poetry is like bewitching woman ; 
she has in all ages been accused of misleading 
mankind from the counsels of wisdom and the 
paths of prudence, involving them in difficulties, 
baiting them with poverty, branding them with 
infamy, and plunging them in the whirling vor- 
tex of ruin ; yet where is the man but must own 
that all happiness on earth is not worthy the 
name — that even the holy hermit's solitary pros- 
pect of paradisaical bliss is but the glitter of a 
northern sun, rising over a frozen region, com- 
pared with the many pleasures, the nameless 
raptures that we owe to the lovely Queen of the 
heart of IMan ! 



No. CLXXIX. 
TO MISS CHALMERS. 

M4DAM, August, 1793. 

Some rather unlooked-for accidents have pre- 
vented my doing myself the honour of a second 
visit to Arbiegland, as I was so hospitably invit- 
ed, and so positively meant to have done I 

However, I still hope to have that pleasure be- | 
fore the busy months of harvest begin. 

I enclose you two of my late pieces, as some 
kind return for the pleasure I have received in 
perusing a certain MS. volume of poems in the 
possession of Csptain Riddel. To repay one 
with an old song, is a proverb, whose force you, 
Madam, I know will not allow. What is said 
;if illustrious descent is, I believe, enually true of 



No. CLXXX. 

TO JOHN M'MURDO, Esq. 

SIR, December, 1793. 

It is said that we take the greatest liberties 
with our greatest friends, and I pay myself a 
very high compliment in the manner in which 
I am going to apply the remark. I have owed 
you money longer than ever I owed it to any 

man Here is Ker's account, and here are six 

guineas ; and now, I don't owe a shilling to 
m.an — or woman either. But for these damned 
dirty, dog's ear'd little pages,* 1 had done my- 
self the honour to have waited on you long ago. 
Independent of the obligations your hospitality 



• Scottish bank-notes. 



has laid me under, the consciousc »ss of your su- 
periority in the rauk of man and gentleman, of 
itself was fully as much as I could ever make 
head against ; but to owe you money too, was 
more than I could face. 

I think I once mentioned something of a col- 
lection of Scotch songs I have for some years 
been making : I send you a perusal of what I 
have got together. I could not conveniently 
Rpare them above five or six days, ami five or 
six glances of them will probably more than suf- 
fice you. A very few of them are my own. 
When you are tired of them, please leave them 
with Mr. Clint, of the King's Arms. There is 
not another copy of the collection in the world ; 
and I shall be sony that any unfortunate negii 
gence shot Id depr'""- me of what has cost me a 
good deal of pains. 



LETTERS, 179d^, 1793, 1796. 

iNo. CLXXXI. 
TO THE EARL OF RUCHAN, 

WITH A rOPV OF " BKUrt-'s ADDRESS TO HIS 
TROOl'S AT BANNOCKBURN." 

MY LORD, Dumfries, I2th Jan. 1794. 

Will your lordship allow me to present you 
with the enclosed little composition of mine, as 
a small tribute of gratitude for that acquaint- 
ance with which you have been pleased to ho- 
nour me. Independent of my enthusiasm as a 
Scotsman, I have rarely met vvith any thing in 
nistosy which interest my feelings as a man, 
equal with the story of Baunockburn. On the 
one hand, a cruel, but able usurper, leading on 
the finest army in Europe to extinguish the last 
sjiark of freedom among a greatly-daring, and 
gieatly-injured people : on the other hand, the 
desperate relics of a gallant nation, devoting 
themselves to rescue their bleeding country, or 
perish with her. 

Liberty ! thou art a prize truly, and indeed 
invaluable ! — for never canst thou be too dearly 
bought ! 

I have the honour to be, &c. 



No. CLXXXIL 
TO MRS. RIDUEI^ 

WHO »rXS TO BESPEAK A PLAY ONE RVENIKO 
Al THE DUMFRIES THEATRE. 

I AM thinking to send my Adtlress to some 
periodical publication, but it has not got your 
sanction, so pray look over it. 



my dear Madara, let me beg of you to give UR, 
The Wonder, a Woman keeps a Secret ; to 
w^ h please adc, T/ie Spoiled Child — you will 
y ^jly oblige me by so doing. 



Ah, what an enviable creature 



you 



There now, this cursed gloomy blue-devil day, 
you are going to a party of choice spirits— 

*< To play the shapes 
Of frolic fancy, and incessant form 
Those rapid pictures, that assembled train 
Of fleet ideas, never join'd before. 
Where lively wit excites to gay surprise ; 
Or folly, painting humour, grave himself. 
Calls laughter forth, deep-shaking every nerve. 

But as you rejoice with them that do rejoice, 
do also remember to weep with them that 
and pity your melancholy friend 



No. CLXXXIU. 
TO A LADY 

IN FAVOUR or A PLAYEr's BENEFIT. 
MADAM, 

You were so very good as to promise me to 
honour my friend with your presence on his 
benefit-night. That night is fixed for Friday 
first : the play a most interesting one ! The 
way to keep Him. I have the pleasure to know 
Mr. G. well. His merit as an actor is gene- 
rally acknowledged. He has genius and worth 
which would do honour to patronage : he is a 
poor and modest man ; claims which, from 
their very silence, have the more forcible power 
on the generous heart. Alas, for pity ! that, 
from the indolence of those who have the good 
things of this life in their gift, too often does 
brazen-fronted importunity snatch that boon, 
the rightful due of retiring, humble, want ! Of 
all the qualities we assign to the author and di- 
rector of Nature, by far the most enviable is — 
to be able " To wipe away all tears from all 
eyes." O what insignificant, sordid wretches 
are they, however chance may have loaded them 
with wealth, who go to their graves, to their 
magnificent mausoleums, with hardly the con- 
sciousness of having made one poor honest heart 
happy ! 

But I crave your pardon, Madam j I came to 
beg, not to preach. 



No. CLXXXIV. 

EXTRACT OF A LETTER 



TO MR. 



r94 



1 AM extremely obliged to you for your kine 
As to tt Tuesday's jilay, let m^- beg of you, mention of my mterests, in a letter which I\Ir 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



377 



2j^ , — showed me. At present, my siiuation j 
Li life must be in a great naeasure stationarvj 1 
it least for two or three years. The statement 
Is this — I am on the supervisor's list ; and as 
we come on there by precedency, in two or 
three years I shall be at the head of that list, 
und be appointed nf course — then a Friend 
might be of service to me in getting me into a 
place of the kingdom which I would like. A 
supervisor's income varies from about a hundred 
and twenty, to two hundred a-year ; but the 
business is an incessant drudgery, and would be 
nearly a complete bar to every species of litera- 
ry pursuit. The moment I am appointed su- 
pervisor in the common routine, I may be no- 
minated on the collector's list ; and this is al- 
' ways a business purely of political patronage. A 
3ollectorship varies much, from better than two 
hundred a-year to near a thousand. They also 
come forward by precedency on the list, and 
have, besides a handsome income, a life of com- 
•^lete leisure. A life of literary leisure, with a 
I decent competence, is the summit of my wish- 
es. It would be the prudish affectation of silly 
pride in me, to say that I do not need or would 
not be indebted to a political friend ; at the 
same time, Sir, I by no means lay my affairs 
before you thus, to hook my dependent situa- 
tion on your benevolence. If, in my progress 
of life, an opening should occur where the good 
offices of a gentleman of your public character 
and political consequence might bring me for- 
ward, I will petition your goodness with the 
same frankness and sincerity as I now do my- 
self the honour to subscribe myself, &c. 



No. CLXXXV. 



TO MRS. RIDDEL. 



DEAR MADAM, 

I MEANT to have called on you yesternight, 
but as I edged up to your box-door, the first 
object which greeted my view, was one of those 
lobster-coated puppies, sitting like another dra- 
gon, guarding the Hesperian fruit. On the 
conditions and capitulations you so obligingly 
offer, I shall certainly make my weather-beaten 
rustic phiz a part of your box-furniture on 
Tuesday, when we may arrange the business of 
the visit. 



Among the profusion of idle compliments 
which insidious craft, or unmeaning folly inces- 
santly offers at your shrine — a shrine, how far 
>xalted above such adoration^ — permit me, were 
't but for rarity's sake, to pay you the honest 
tribute of a warm heart, and an independent 
aiiud ; and to assure you, that I am, thou most 
am'-ible, and most accomplished of thy sex, 
with the most respectful esteem, and fervent re- 
gard, thine, &c. 



No. CLXXXVI. 

TO THE SAME, 

I WILL wait on you, my ever-valued friend 
but whether in the morning I am not sure. 
Sunday closes a period of our curst revenue bu 
siness, and may probably keep me employee 
with my pen until noon. Fine employment for 
a poet's pen ! There is a species of the human 
genus that t call the gin-horse class : what en- 
viable dogs they are. Round, and round, and 
round they go, — Mundell's ox that drives hi, 
cotton mill, is their exact prototype — without 
an idea or a wish beyond their circle : fat, 
sleek, stupid, patient, quiet, and contented ; 
while here I sit, altogether Novemberish, a d — 
melange of fretfulness and melancholy ; not 
enough of the one to rouse me to passion, nor 
of the other to repo^e me in torpor ; my soul 
flouncing and fluttering round her tenement, 
like a wild finch, caught amid the horrors of 
winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I 
am persuaded that it was of me the Hebrew 
sage prophesied, when he foretold — " And be- 
hold, on whatsoever this man doth set his heart, 
it shall not prosper !" If my resentment is awak- 
ened, it is sure to be where it dare not squeak ; 
and if — 



Pray that wisdom and bliss be more frequent 
visitors of 

R. B. 



No. CLXXXV II. 



TO THE SAME. 



I HAVE this moment got the song trom 

S , and I am sorry to see that he has spoilt 

it a good deal. It shall be a lesson to me how 
I lend him any thing again. 

I have sent you Werter, truly happy to have 
any the smallest opportunity of obligmg you. 

'Tis true. Madam, I saw you once since I 

was at W ; and that once froze the very 

life-blood of my heart. Your reception of me 
was such, that a wretch meeting the eye of his 
judge, about to pronounce sentence of death on 
him, could only have envied my feelings and si- 
tuation. But I hate the theme, and never more 
shall write or speak on it. 

One thing I shall proudly say, that I can pay 
Mrs. a higher tribute of esteem, and ap- 
preciate her amiable worth more truly, than any 
maa whom I have seen approach ber. 



378 



BURNS' WORKS. 



No. CLXXXVIII. 
TO THE SAME. 

I HAVE often told you, my dear friend, that 
you had a spice of caprice iu your composition, 
and you have as often disavowed it, even per- 
haps while your opinions were, at the moment, 
irrefragably proving it. Could any thing es- 
trange me from a friend such as you ? — No ! 
To-morrow I shall have the honour of waiting 
on you. 

Farewell, thou first of friends, and most ac 
complished of women ; even with all thy little 
oaprices ! 



No. CLXXXIX. 
TO THE SAME. 

MADAM, 

I RETURN your common-place book. I have 
perused it with much pleasure, and would have 
continued my criticisms, but as it seems the 
critic has forfeited your esteem, his strictures 
must lose their value. 

If it is true that " offences come only from 
the heart," before you I am guiltless. To ad- 
mire, esteem, and prize you, as the most accom- 
plished of women, and the first of friends — if 
these are crimes, I am the most ofiending thing 
alive. 

In a face where I used to meet the kind com- 
placency of friendly confidence, now to find cold 
neglect, and contemptuous scorn — is a wrench 
that my heart can ill bear. It is, houfver, 
eome kind of miserable good luck ; tliat while 
de-haut-en-has rigour may depress an uri(.ttend- 
ing wretch to the ground, it has a tendency to 
rouse a stubborn something in his bosom, which, 
though it cannot heal the wounds of his soul, is 
at least an opiate to blunt their poignancy. 

With the profoundest respect for your abili- 
ties ; the most sincere esteem, and ardent re- 
gard for your gentle heart and amiable manners ; 
and the most fervent wish and prayer for your 
welfare, peace, and bliss, I have the honour to 
be. Madam, your most devoted humble servant. 



No. CXC. 

TO JOHN SYME, Esq. 

You know that among other high dignities, 
you have the honour to be my supreme court 
of critical judicature, from which there is no 
appeal. I enclose you a song which I compos- 
ed since I saw you, and I am going to give you 
the history of it. Do you know that among 
much that I admire in the characters and man- 



ners of those great folks whom I aave noV the 

honour to cail my acquaintances, the O — ■ 

family, there is nothing charms me more than 
than Mr. O's unconcealable attachment to that 
incomparable woman. Did you ever, my dear 
Syme, meet with a man who owed more to the 
Divine Giver of all good things than Mr. O. i 
A fine fortune ; a pleasing exterior ; self-evident 
amiable dispositions, and an ingenious upright 
mind, and that informed too, much beyond the 
usual run of young fellows of his rank and for- 
tune ; and to all this, such a woman ! — but of 
her I shall say nothing at all, in despair of say- 
ing any thing adequate : in my song, I have en- 
deavoured to do justice to what would be his 
feelings on seeing, in the scene I have drawn, 
the habitation of his Lucy. As I am a good 
deal pleased with my performance, I in my first 

fervour thought of sending it to Mrs. O , 

but on second thoughts, perhaps what I ofier as 
the honest incense of genuine respect, might, 
from the well-known character of poverty and 
poetry, be construed into some modification or 
other of that servility which my soul abhorB*. 



CXCI. 
TO MISS— . 



^ADAM. 

Nothing short of a kind of absolute necessi- 
ty could have made me trouble you with this 
letter. Except my ardent and just esteem for 
your sense, taste, and worth, every sentiment 
arising in my breast, as I put pen to paper to you, 
is. i)ainful. The scenes I have passed with the 
iriend of my soul, and his amiable connexions! 
The wrench at my heart to think that he is 
jrone, for ever gone from me, never more to 
meet in the wanderings of a weary world ; and 
the cutting reflection of all, that I had most un- 
fortunately, though most undeservedly, lost the 
confidence of that soul of worth, ere it took its 
flight. 

These, Madam, are sensations of no ordinary 

anguish However, yon, also, may be ofiijnded 

with some imputed improprieties of mine ; sen- 
sibility you know I possess, and sincerity none 
will deny me. 

To oppose those prejudices which have been 
raised against me, is not the business of this 
letter. Indeed it is a warfare I know not how 
to wage. The powers of positive vice I can in 
5!ome degree calculate, and against direct male- 
volence I can be on my guard ; but who can 
estimate the fatuity of giddy caprice, or ward 
ofi" the unthinking mischief of precipitate folly .' 

I have a favour to request of you. Madam, 
and of your sister Mrs. , through youi 



* The song enclosed was the one beginning with 
" O wat ye wha's in von town. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



379 



Means. You know, that, at tlie wish of my late 
friend, I made a collection of all my trifles in 
verse which I had ever written. They are ma- 
ny of them local, some of them puerile, and sil- 
•y, and all of them unfit for the public eye. As 
I have some little fame at stake, a fame that I 
trust may live, when the hate of those who 
" watch for my halting," and the contumelious 
sneer of those whom accident has made my su- 
periors, will, with themselves, be gone to the 
regions of oblivion ; I am uneasy now for the 

fate of those manuscripts. — Will Mrs have 

the goodness to destroy them, or return them to 
me ? As a pledge of friendship they were be- 
stowed ; and that circumstance, iudeed, was all 
their merit. Most unhappily for me, that me- 
rit they no longer possess, and I hope that Mrs, 

's goodness, which I well know, and ever 

will revere, will not refuse this favour to a man 
whom she once held in some degree of estima- 
tion. 

With the sincerest esteem I have the honour 
to be, Madam, Stc. 



No. CXCIL 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

A MIND DISEASED. 

25th February/, 1794. 
Cakst thou minister to a mind diseased ? 
Canst thou speak peace and rest to a soul tossed 
on a sea of troubles, without one friendly star to 
guide her course, and dreading that the next 
surge may overwhelm her ? Canst thou give to 
a frame, tremblingly alive to the tortures of sus- 
pense, the stability and hardihood of the rock 
that braves the blast ? If thou canst not do the 
least of these, why wouldst thou disturb me in 
my miseries, with thy inquiries after me ? 



For these two months I have not been able to 
lift a pen. My constitution and frame were, ab 
origine, blasted with a deep incurable taint of 
hypochondria, which poisons my existence. Of 
ate a number of domestic vexations, and some 

pecuniary share in the ruin of these times ; 

losses which, though trifling, were yet what I 
could ill bear, have so irritated me, that my 
feelings at times could only be envied by a re- 
probate spirit listening to the sentence that 
dooms it to perdition. 

Are you deep in the language of consolation ? 
I have exhausted in reflection every topic of 
comfort. A heart at ease would have been 
charmed with my sentiments and reasonings ; 
but as to myself, I was like Judas Iscariot 
preaching the gospel ; he might melt and mould 
the hearts of those around him, but his own 
kept its native incorrigibility. 

StiP ♦Here are two great pillars that bear us 



up, amid the wreck of misfortune and misery 
The ONE is composed of the different modifica- 
tions of a certain noble, stubborn something '3 
man, known by the names of courage, fortitude, 
magnanimity. The other is made up of those 
feelings and sentiments, which, however the 
sceptic may deny them, or the enthusiast dis- 
figure them, are yet, I am convinced, original 
and component parts of the human soul ; those 
senses of the mind, if I may be allowed the 
expression, which connect us with, and link 
us to, those awful obscure realities — an all- 
powerful and equally beneficent God ; and a 
world to come, beyond death and the grave. 
The first gives the nerve of combat, while a ray 
of hope beams on the field ; — the last pours the 
balm of comfoit into the wounds which time 
can never cure. 

I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, 
that you and I ever talked on the subject of re- 
ligion at all. I know some who laugh at it, as 
the trick of the crafty few, to lead the undis- 
cerning many ; or at most as an uncertain ob- 
scurity, which mankind can never know any 
thing of, and with which thfey are fools if they 
give themselves much to do. Nor would I 
quarrel with a man for his irreligion, any more 
than I would for his want of a musical ear. I 
would regret that he was shut out from what, 
to me and to others were such superlative sources 
of enjoyment. It is in this point of view, and 
for this reason, that I will deeply imbue the 
mind of every child of mine with religion. Il 
my son should happen to be a man of feeling, 
sentiment, and taste, I shall thus add largely to 
his enjoyments. Let me flatter myself that this 
sweet little fellow who is just now running 
about my desk, will be a man of a melting, ar- 
dent, glowing heart ; and an imagination, de- 
lighted with the painter, and rapt with the 
poet. Let me figure him, wandering out in a 
sweet evening, to inhale the balmy gales, and 
enjoy the growing luxuriance of the spring ; 
himself the while in the blooming youth of life. 
He looks abroad on all nature, and through na- 
ture up to nature's God. His soul, by swift, 
delightiug degrees, is wrapt above this sublu- 
nary sphere, until he can be silent no longer, 
and bursts out into the glorious enthusiasm of 
Thomson. — 

" These, as they change, Almighty Father, these 
Are but the varied God. — The rolling year 
Is full of thee." 

And so on, in all the spirit and ardour of that 
charming hymn. 

These are no ideal pleasures ; they are rea 
delights, and I ask what of the delights among 
the sons of men are superior, not to say, equa 
to them ? And they have this precious, vast ad- 
dition, that conscious virtue stamps them for 
her own ; and lays hold on them to bring her 
self into the presence of a witnessing, judging, 
and approving God. 



No. (;xciii. 



TO 



SUPPOSES HIMSELF TO BE WRITING FROM THE 
DEAD TO THE LIVING. 

MADAM, 

I DARE saj this is the first epistle you ever 
received from this nether world. I write you 
from the regions of Hell, amid the horrors of 
the damned. The time and manner of ray lea- 
ving your earth I do not exactly know ; as I 
took my departure in the heat of a fever of in- 
toxication, contracted at your too hospitable 
mansion ; but on my arrival here, I was fairly 
tried and sentenced to endure the purgatorial 
tortures of this infernal confine, for the space of 
ninety-nine years, eleven months, and twenty- 
nine days ; and all on account of the improprie- 
ty of my conduct yesternight under your roof. 
Here am I, laid on a bed of pitiless furze, with 
my aching head reclined on a pillow of ever- 
piercing thorn, while an infernal tormentor, 
wrinkled, and old, and cruel, his name, I think, 
is Recollection, with a whip of scorpions, for- 
bids peace or rest to approach me, and keeps 
anguish eternally awake. Still, Madam, if I 
could in any measure be reinstated in the good 
opinion of the fair circle whom my conduct last 
night so much injured, I think it would be an 
alleviation to my torments. For this reason I 
trouble you with this letter. To the men of 
the company I will make no apology. — Your 
husband, who insisted on my drinking more 
than I chose, has no right to blame me ; and 
the other gentlemen were partakers of my guilt. 
But to you, Madam, I have much to apologize. 
Your good opiaiou I valued as one of the great- 
est acquisitions 1 had made on earth, aud I was 
•;ruly.a beast to foi-feit it. There was a Miss 
I— — too, a woman of fine sense, gentle and 
unassuming manners — do make, on my part, a 
miserable d — d wretch's best apology to her. A 

Mrs. G , a charming woman, did me the 

honour to be prejudiced in my favour ; this 
makes me hope that I have not outraged her 
beyond all forgiveness. — To all the other ladies 
please present my humblest contrition for my 
conduct, and my petition for their gracious par- 
don. O all ye powers of decency and decorum ! 
whisper to them that ray errors, though great, 
were involuntary — that an intoxicated man is 
the vilest of beasts — that it was not in my na- 
ture to be brutal to any one — that to be rude to 
a. woman, when in my senses, was impossible 
with me — but — 



Regret ! Remorse ! Shame ! ye three hell- 
aounds that ever dog my steps and bay at my 
heels, spare me ! spare me ! 

Forgive the offences, and pity the perdition 
of, Madam, your humble slave. 



No. CXCIV. 
TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN 

MY LORD, 

When you cast your eye on the name at the 
bottom of this letter, and on the title page ol 
the book I do myself the honour to send your 
lordship, a more pleasurable feeling than my va- 
nity tells me, that it must be a name not entire- 
ly unknown to you. The generous patronage 
of your late illustrious brother found me in the 
lowest obscurity : he introduced my rustic muse 
to the partiality of my country ; and to him I 
owe all. My sense of his goodness, and the 
anguish of my soul at losing my truly noble 
protector and friend, I have endeavoured to ex- 
press in a poem to his memory, which I have 
now published. This edition i just from the 
press ; and in my gratitude to the dead, aud my 
respect for the living (fame belies you, my lord, 
if you possess not the same dignity of man, 
which was your noble brother's characteristic 
feature), I had destined a copy for the Earl of 
Gleucairn. I learnt just now that you are in 
town : — allow me to present it to you. 

I know, my lord, such is the vile, venal con- 
tagion which peivades the world of letters, 
that professions of respect from an author, par- 
ticularly from a poet, to a lord, are more than 
suspicious. I claim ray by-past conduct, and 
my feelings at this moment, as exceptions to the 
too just conclusion. Exalted as are the honours 
of your lordship's name, and unnoted as is the 
obscurity of mine ; with the uprightness of an 
honest man, I come before your lordship, with 
an offering, however humble, 'tis all I have to 
give, of my grateful respect ; and to beg of you, 
my lord, — 'tis all I have to ask of you, that you 
will do me the honour to accept of it. 

I have the honour to be, &c. * 



No. CXCV. 
TO DR. ANDERSON, 

AUTHOR OB THE LIVES OF THE POETS. 



I AM much indebted to my worthy friend 
Dr. Blacklock for introducing me to a gentle- 
man of Dr. Anderson's celebrity ; but when you 
do me the honour to ask my assistance in your 
purposed publication, Alas, Sir ! you might as 
well think to cheapen a little honesty at the 
sign of an Advocate's wig, or humility under 
the Geneva band. I am a miserable hurried 
devil, worn to the marrow in the friction of 



» The original letter is. in the possession of the Ho- 
nourable Mrs. 'Jolland of Poynings. From a memo, 
randum on the ))ack of the letter, it appears to hav« 
been written in May 1794. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



38 i 



holding tlae noses of the poor publicans to the 
grindstone of Excise ; and like Milton's Satan, 
for private reasons, am forced 

To do what yet tlio' dairCd 1 woidd ab- 
hore ;*' — 

ftad except a couplet or two of honest execration 



No. CXCVI. 
TO MRS. DUNLQi* 

Castle Douglas, 5th Juney 1794. 

Here in a solitary inn, in a solitary village, 
am I set by myself, to amuse my brooding fancy 
as I may. — Solitary confinement, you know, is 
Howard's favourite idea of reclaiming sinners ; 
80 let me consider by what fatality it hapf)ens 
that I have so long been exceeding sinful as to 
neglect the correspondence of the most valued 
friend I have on earth. To tell you that I have 
been in poor health, will not be excuse enough, 
though it is true. I am afraid I am about to 
niffer for the follies of my youth. My medical 
friends threaten me with a flying gout ; but I 
trust they are mistaken. 

1 am just going to trouble your critical pa- 
tience with the first sketch of a stanza 1 have 
been framing as I paced along the road. The 
subject is LIBERTY : You know, my honoured 
friend, how dear the theme is to me. I design 
it an irregular Ode for General Washington's 
birth-day. After having mentioned the dege- 
neracy of other kingdoms, I come to Scotland 
thus : 

( <S'ee Pnems, p. 77. ) 

You will probably have another scrawl from 
me in a stage or two. 



No. cxcvn. 

TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON. 

MY DEAR FRIEND, 

You should have heard from me long ago ; 
but over and above some vexatious share in the 
pecuniary loeses of these accursed times, I have 
all this winter been plagued with low spiiits 
and blue devils, so that / have almost hung my 
harp on the willow trees. 

I am just now busy correcting a new edition 
of my poems, and this, with my ordinary busi- 
ness, finds me in full employment. * 

• Dums's anxiety with regard to the correctness of 
(lis writings was very great. Being questioned ns to 
his m(xie of composition, he replied, " All my poefry 
is the effect of easy composition, but of laborious cjr- 
"ection." 



I send you by my frieEK' Mr. Wallace forty. ■ 
one songs for your fifth vo.'iame ; if we cannot 
finish it any other way, what would you think 
of Scots words to some beautiful Irish airs ? 
In the meantime, at your leisure, give a copy 
of the Museum lo my worthy friend Mr. Peter 
Hill, bookseller, to bind for me, interleaved 
with blank leaves, exactly as he did the laird 
of Glenriddel's,* that I may insert every anec- 
dote I can learn, together with my own crii^i- 
cisms and remarks on the songs. — A copy ol 
this kind I shall leave with you, the editor, to 
publish at some after period, by way of making 
the Museum a book famouti to the end of time, 
and you lenowned for ever. 

I have got an Highland dirk for which I have 
great veneration ; as it once was the dirk of 
Lord Salmerino. It fell into bad hands, who 
stripped it of the silver mounting, as well as 
the knife and fork. I have some thoughts of 
sending it to your care, to get it mounted anew. 

Thank jou for the copies of my Volunteer 
Ballad. — Our friend Clarke has done indeed 
well ! It is chaste and beautiful. I have not 
met with any thing that has pleased me so 
much. You know, I am no connoisseur ; but 
that I am an amateur — will be allowed me. 



No. CXCVIII. 

TO PETER MILLER, Jun. EsQ.f 
OF DALSWINTON. 

BEAR SIR, Dumfries, Nov. 1794 

Your offer is indeed truly generous, and most 
sincerely do I thank you for it ; but in my pre- 
sent situation, I find that I dare not accept it. 
You well know my political sentiments ; and 
were I an insular individual, unconnected with 
a wife and a family of children, with the most 
fervid enthusiasm I would have volunteered my 
services : I then could and would have despised 
all consequences that might have ensued. 

My prospect in the Excise is something ; at 
least, it is, encumbered as I am with the wel- 
fare, the very existence, of near half-a-score 
of helpless individuals, what I dare not sport 
with. 

In the mean time, they are most welcome to 



* This is the manuscript book containing the re- 
marks on Scottish songs and ballads, presented to the 
public, with consideralde additions, in this vohime. 

t In a conversation with his friend Mr. Perry, (the 
proprietor of " The Morning Chronicle"), Mr. Millet 
represented to that gentleman the insufficiency of 
Burns's salary to answer the imperious demands of a 
numerous family. In their sympathy for his misfor- 
tunes, and in th ir regret that his talents were nearly 
!oit to the world of letters, these gentlemen agreed on 
the plan of settling him in London. 

To accomplish this most desirable object, Mr. Perry, 
very spiritedly, made tlie poet a handsome offer of an 
annual sti|)end for the exercise of his talents 'n his 
newspaper. Burns's reasons for refusing this offer ar« 
stated in the present letter— CftOMEK. 



382 



BURNS WORKS. 



mv Ode ; only, let thera insert t as a thing 
th'ev have met with by accident and unknown 
to me. — Nay, if Mr. Perry, wbcee honour, af- 
ter your character of him I cannot doubt ; if 
he will give ine an address and channel by which 
any thing will come safe from those spies with 
which he may be certain that his correspon- 
dence is beset, I will now and then send him 
any bagatelle that I may write. In the present 
hurry of Europe, nothing but news and politics 
will be legarded ; but against the days of peace, 
which Heaven send soon, my little assistance 
may perhaps fill up an idle column of a News- 
paper. I have long had it in my head to try 
my hand in the way of little prose essiys, which 
I propose sending into the world through the 
medium of some Newspaper ; and should these 
be worth his while, to these Mr. Perry shall 
be welcome ; and all my reward shall be, his 
treating me with his paper, which, by the bye, to 
any body who has the least relish for wit, is a 
high treat indeed. 

With the most grateful esteem, I am ever, 
Dear Sir, &c. 



No. CXCIX. 

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. 

MY DEAR SIR, Dumfries. 

It is indeed with the highest satisfaction that 
I congratulate you on the return of " days of 
ease, and nights of pleasure," after the horrid 
hours of misery, in which 1 saw you suffering 
existence when I was last in Ayrshire. I sel- 
dom pray for any body. *' I'm baith dead 
sweer, and wretched ill o't." But most fervent- 
ly do I beseech the great Director of this world, 
that you may live long and be happy, but that 
you may live no longer than while you are 
happy. It is needless for me to advise you to 
have a reverend care of your health. I know 
you will make it a point never, at one time, to 
drink more than a pint of wine; (I mean an 
English pint), and that you will never be wit- 
ness to more than one bowl of punch at a time ; 
and that cold drams you will never more taste. 
I am well convinced too, that after drinking, 
perhaps boiling punch, you will never mount 
your hurse and gallop home in a chill, late hour. 
— Above all things, as I understand you are 
now in habits of intimacy with that Boanerges 
of gospel poweis, Father Auld, be earnest with 
him that he will wrestle in prayer for you, that 
you may see the vanity of vanities in trusting 
to, or even practising he carnal moral works 
of charity, humanity, ^enerosity, and f ryive- 
?iess ; things which you practised so flagrantly 
that it was evident you delighted in them ; tie- 
electing, or perhaps, prophanely despising the 
wholesame doctrine of " Faith without works, 
ihe only ancho.- -jf salvation." 



A hymn of thanksgivmg would, in my cm 
nion, be highly becoming from you at present • 
and in my zeal for your well-being, I earnestly 
press it on you to be diligent in chanting over 
the two enclosed pieces of sacred poesy. My 
best compliments to Mrs. Hamilton and Miss 
Kennedy. 

Yours in the L d 

R. B. 



No. CC. 



TO MR. SAMUEL CLARKE, Jun. 
Dumfries. 

DEAR SIR, Sunday Morning^ 
I WAS, I know, drunk last night, but I am so- 
ber this morning. From the expressions Capt. 
, made use of to me, had I had no- 



body's welfare to care for but my own, we should 
certainly have come, according to the manners 
of the world, to the necessity of murdering one 
another about the business. The words were 
such as, generally, I believe, end in a brace of 
pistols ; but I am still pleased to think that I 
did not ruin the peace and welfare of a wife and 
a family of children in a drunken squabble. 
Farther you know that the report of certain 
political opinions being mine, has already once 
before brought nie to the brink of destruction. 
I dread lest last night's business may be mis- 
represented in the same way. — You, I beg, 
will take care to prevent it. I tax your wish 
for Mrs. Burns's welfare with the task of wait- 
ing as soon as possible, on every gentleman 
who was present, and state this to him, and, as 
you please, shew him this letter. What, after 
all, was the obnoxious toast? " May our suc- 
cess in the present war be equal to the justice 
of our cause." — A toast that the most outrage- 
ous frenzy of loyalty cannot object to. I request 
and beg that this morning you will wait on the 
parties present at the foolish dispute. I shall 
only add, that I am truly sorry that a man who 

stood so high in my estimation as Mr. , 

should use me in the manner in which I con 
ceive he has done.* 



* At this period of our Poet's life, when political 
animosity was made the ground of private quarrel, the 
following foolish verses were sent as an attack on 
Burns and his friends for their political opinions. 
They were written by some member of a club styling 
themselves the Loyal Natives of Dumfries, or rather 
by the uipted genius of that club, which was more dis- 
tinguished for drunken loyalty, than either for re- 
spectability or poetical talent. The verses were hand- 
ed over the table to Burns at a convivial meeting, and 
he instantly indorsed the subjoined reply. 

The Loyal Natives' Verses. 

Ve sons of sedition give ear to my song, 

Let Syme, BuriNS, and Maxwell, pervade everj 

throng, 
With, Cracken the attorney, and Mundell the quack. 
Send Willie the monger to hell with a smack 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



38S 



No. CCI. 
lO MR. ALEXANDER FINDLATER, 

SUPERVISOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES. 
IIR, 

Enclosed are the two schemes. I would 
not have troubled you with the collector's one, 
but for suspicion lest it be not right. Mr. Ers- 
kine promised me to make it right, if you will 
have the goodnes to shew him how. As I have 
no copy of the scheme for myself, and the alter- 
ations being very considerable from what it was 
formerly, I hope that I shall have access to this 
scheme I send you, when I come to face up my 
new books. So much for schemes, — And tiiat 
no scheme to betray a friend, or mislead a 
STRANGER ; to scduce a young girl, or rob 
a henroost ; to subvert liberty, or bribe an 
EXCISEMAN ; to disturb the general assem- 
bly, or annoy a gossipping ; to overthrow the 
credit of orthodoxy, or the authority of old 
SONGS ; to oppose your wishes, or frustrate mt/ 
hopes — MAY prosper — is the sincere wish and 
prayer of 

ROBT. BURNS. 



No. ecu. 

TO THE EDITORS OF THE MORNING 
CHRONICLE.* 

gentlemen, Dumfries. 

You will see by your subscribers' list, that 
I have now been about nine months one of that 
number. 

I am sorry to inform you, that in that time, 
seven or eight of your papers either have nevei 
Deen sent me, or else have never reached me. 
To be deprived of any one number of the first 
newspaper in Great Britain for information. 



ability and independence, is what I can ill brook 
and bear ; but to be deprived of that most ad- 
mirable oration of the Marquis of Lansdowne, 
when he made the great, though ineffectual at- 
tempt, (in the language of the poet, I fear too 
true,) '' to save a sinking state" — this was 
a loss which I neither can, nor will forgive you. 
— That paper. Gentlemen, never reached me ; 
but I demand it of you. I am a briton ; and 
must be interested in the cause of liberty :—* 
I am a man ; and the rights of human na- 
ture cannot be indifferent to me. However, 
do not let me mislead you : I am not a man in 
that situation of life, which, as your subscriber, 
can be of any consequence to you, in the eyes 
of those to whom situation of life alone 
is the criterion of man. — T am but a plain 
tradesman, in this distant, obscure country 
town : but that humble domicile in which I 
shelter my wife and children, is the castellum 
of a BRITON ; and that scanty, hard-earned in- 
come which supports them, is as truly my pro- 
perty, as the most magnificent fortune, of the 

most PUISSANT MEMBER of yOUr HOUSE of 
NOBLES. 

These, Gentlemen, are my sentiments ; and 
to them I subscribe my name : and were I a 
man of ability and consequence enough to ad- 
dress the public, with that name should they 
appear. 

I am, &c. 



Burns— extern pore. 

Ve true " Loyal Natives" attend to my song, 

In uproar and riot rejoice the night long; 

From emy and hatred your corps is exempt ; 

But where is your shield from the darts of contempt ? 

* This letter owes its origin to the following cir- 
cumstatice. A neighbour of the Poet's at Dumfries, 
called on him and complained that he was greatly dls 
appointed in the irregular delivery of the Paper of 
T/ie Morning Chronicle. Burns asked, '• Why do 
not you write to the Editors of the Paper V" Good 
God, Sir, can / presume to write to the learned Edi- 
tors of a Newspaper ? — Well, \i you are afraid of writ- 
ing to the Editors of a Newspaper / am not; and if 
rou think proper, I'll draw up a sketch of a letter, 
which you may copy 

Burns tore a" leaf from his excise book and instantly 
produced the sketch which I have transcribed, and 
A-hich is here printed. The poor man thanked him, 
and took fhe letter home. However, that caution 
which the watchfulness of his enemies had taught him 
to exercise, prompted him to the prudence of begging 
a friend to wait on the person for whom it was writ- 
ten, and request the favour to have it returned. This 
request was complies! with, and the paper never ap- 
^ar«ri in print. 



No. CCIII. 

TO COL. W. DUNBAR. 

I AM not gone to Elysium, most noble Co- 
lonel, but am still here in this sublunary world, 
serving my God by propagating his image, and 
honouring my king by begetting him loyal sub- 
jects. Many happy returns of the season await 
my friend ! May the thorns of care never be- 
wt his path ! May peace be an inmate of his 
bosom, and rapture a frequent visitor of his 
soul ! May the blood-hounds of misfortune ne- 
ver trace his steps, nor the screech-owl of sor- 
row alarm his dwelling ! May enjoyment tell 
thy hours, and pleasure number thy days, thoK 
friend of the Bard ! Blessed be he that bless- 
eth thee, and cursed be he that curseth thee ' 



No. CCIV. 
TO MISS FONTENELLE, 

ACCOMPANYING A PROLOGUE TO BE SPOEEX 
FOR HER BENEFIT. 

MA DAM, 

In such a bad world as ours, those who adij 
to the scanty sum of our pleasures, are poai- 



384 



BURNS* WORKS. 



tively our benefactors. To yo'Ji, Madam, on 
our humble Dumfries boards, I have been more 
indebted for entprtainment than ever I was in 
prouder theatres. Your charms as a woman 
would insure applause to the most indifferent 
actress, and your theatrical talents would insure 
admiration to the plainest figure. This, Madam, 
is not the unmeaning, or insidious compliment 
of the frivolous or interested ; I pay it from the 
same honest impulse that the sublime of nature 
excites my admiration, or her beauties give me 
delight. 

Will the foregoing lines be of any service to 
you on your approaching benefit night ? If they 
will, I shall be prouder of my muse than ever. 
They are nearly extempore : I know they have 
no great merit ; but though they should add but 
little to the entertainment of the evening, they 
give me the happiness of an opportunity to de- 
clare how much I have the honour to be, &c. 

ADDRESS. 

Spoken hy Miss Fontenelle on her benefit- 
night, Dec. 4, 1795, at the Theatre, Dum- 
fries. 

Still anxious to secure your partial favour, 
And not less anxious, sure, this night than ever, 
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 
'Twould vamp my bill, said T, if nothing better; 
So, sought a Poet, roosted near the skies. 
Told him, I came to feast my curious eyes ; 
Said, nothing like his works was ever printed ; 
And last, my prologue-business slily hinted. — 
" Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of 

rhymes : 
" I know your bent — these are no laughing 

times: 
Can you — but Miss, I own I have my fears. 
Dissolve in pause — and sentimental tears — 
With laden sighs, and solemn rounded sentence. 
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repent- 
ance ; 
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand 
Waving on high the desolating brand, 
Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty 
land!" 

I could no more — askance the creature eyeing, 
1 D'ye think, said I, this fact was made for cry- 
1 ing ? 

I I'll laugh, that's poz — nay, more, the world 
j shall know it ; 

I And so, your servant — gloomy Master Poet. 

I Firm as my creed. Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief, 

That Misery's another word for Grief: 
I also think — so may I be a bride I 

I That so much laughter, so much life enjoy d — 

I Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh. 

Still under bleak misfortune's blasting eye; 

I Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive — 
To make three guineas do the work of five : 



Laugh in Misfortune's face — the beh'fam witch ! 
Say, yvn'U be merry, though you can't be rich 

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, 
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove ; 
Measur'st in desperate thought — a rope — thj 

neck — 
Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, 
Peerest to meditate the healing leap : 
Would' st thou be cured, thou silly, moping elf 
Laugh at heir follies — laugh e'en at thyself : 
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific. 
And love a kinder — that's your grand speci- 
fic 

To sum up all, be merry, I advise , 
And as we're merry, may we still be wise- 



No. ccv, 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

MY DEAR FRIEND, \bth December, 1794.. 

As I am in a complete Decembrish humour 
gloomy, sullen, stupid, as even the deity of Dul- 
ness herself should wish, I shall not drawl out a 
heavy letter with a number of heavier apologies, 
for my late silence. Only one I shall mention, 
because I know you will sympathize in it : these 
four months, a sweet little girl, my youngest 
child, has been so ill, that every day, a week or 
less threatened to terminate her existence. There 
had much need be many pleasures annexed to 
the states of husband and father, for God knows, 
they have many peculiar cares. I cannot de- 
scribe to you the anxious, sleepless hours these 
ties frequently give me. I see a train of helpless 
little folks ; me and my exertions all their stay ; 
and on what a brittle thread does the life of man 
hang ! If I am nipt off at the command of fate ; 
even in all the vigour of manhood as I am, such 
things happen every day — gracious God ! what 
would become of my little flock ! 'Tis here that 

I envy your people of fortune A father on his 

death-bed, taking an everlasting leave of his 
children, has indeed woe enough ; but the man 
of competent fortune leaves his sons and daugh- 
ters independency and friends ; while 1 — but I 
shall run distracted if I think any longer on the 
subject ! 

To leave talking of the matter so gravey, I 
shall sing with the old Scots ballad — 

" O that I had Ee'er been married, 
I would never had nae care ; 
Now I've gotten wife and bairns, 
They cry, crowdie, evermair. 

Crowdie ! ance ; crowdie ! twice ; 

Crowdie ! three times in a day : 
An ye crowdie ony mair, 

Ye'U crowdie a' my meal away.**— 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



385 



December 2Uh. 
We have had a brilliant theatre here, this sea- 
soa ; only, as all other business has, it experi- 
ences a stagnation of trade from the epidemical 
complaint of the country, want of cash. I men- 
tion our theatre merely to lug in an occasional 
Address, vvhich I wrote for the benefit-night of 
one of the actresses, and which is as follows 
( See Address, p. 384.') 

2bth, Christmas, Morning. 

This, my much-loved friend, is a morning of 
wishes : accept mine — so Heaven hear me as 
they are sincere ! that blessings may attend your 
steps, and affliction know you not ! In the 
charming words of my favourite author, The 
Man of Feeling, " May the great spirit bear up 
the weight of thy grey hairs ; and blunt the ar- 
row that brings them rest !" 

Now that I talk of authors, how do you like 
Cowper ? is not the Task a glorious poem ? The 
religion of the Task, bating a few scraps of Cal- 
vinistic divinity, is the religion of God and Na- 
ture : the religion that exalts, that ennobles man. 
Were not you to send me your Zeluco in return 
for mine? Tell me how you like my marks and 
notes through the book. I would not give a far- 
thing for a book, unless I were at liberty to blot 
it with my criticisms. 

I have lately collected, for a friend's perusal, 
all my letters ; I mean those which I first 
sketched, in a rough draught, and afterwards 
wrote out fair. On looking over some old musty 
papers, which from time to time I had parcelled 
by, as trash that were scarce worth preserving, 
and which yet, at the same time, I did not care to 
destroy, I discovered many of those rude sketches, 
«nd have written, and am writing them out, in 
a bound MS. for my friend's library. As I 
wrote always to you the rhapsody of the moment, 
I cannot find a single scroll to you, except one, 
about the commencement of our acquaintance. 
If there were any possible conveyance, I would 
send you a perusal of my book. 



No. CCVI. 

TO MR. HERON, OF HERON. 

SIR, 1794, or 1795. 

I ENCLOSE you some copies of a couple of po- 
litical ballads ; one of which, I believe, you have 
never seen. Would to Heaven I could make 
you master of as many votes in the Stewartry. 
But— 

" Who does the utmost that he can, 
Does welljjicts nobly, angels could no more." 

In order to bring my humble efforts to bear 
with more effect ou the foe, I have privately 
01 inted a g^ood many cooies of both ballads, and 



have sent them among friends all about the coutt. 
try. 

To pillory on Parnassus the rank reprobatioc 
of character, the utter dereliction of all princi- 
ple, in a profligate junto which has not only 
outraged virtue, but violated common decency , 
which, spurning even hypocrisy as paltry ini- 
quity below their daring ; — co unmask their fla- 
gitiousness to the broadest day — to deliver such 
over to their merited fate, is surely not merely 
innocent, but laudable ; is not only propriety, 
but virtue. — You have already, as your auxilia- 
ry, the sober detestation of mankind on the 
heads of your opponents ; and I swear by the 
lyre of Thalia to muster on your side all the vo- 
taries of honest laughter, and fair, candid ridi- 
cule ! 

I am extremely obliged to you for your kind 
mention of my interests in a letter which Mr. 
Syme newed me. At present, my situation in 
life must be in a great measure stationary, at 
least for two or three years. The statement is 
this — I am on the supervisors' list, and as we 
come on there by precedency, in two or three 
years I shall be at the head of that list, and be 
appointed, nf course. Then a friend might 
be of service to me in getting me into a place 
of the kingdom which I would like. A super- 
visor's income varies from about a hundred and 
twenty, to two hundred a year ; but the busi- 
ness is an incessent drudgery, and would be 
nearly a complete bar to every species of litera- 
ry pursuit. The moment I am appointed su- 
pervisor, in the common routine, I may be no- 
minated on the collector's list ; and this is al- 
ways a business purely of political patronage. 
A collectorship varies much, from better than 
two hundred a year to near a thousand. They 
also come forward by precedency on the list ; 
and have besides a handsome income, a life of 
complete leisure. A life of literary leisure with 
a decent competence, is the summit of my wishes. 
It would be the prudish affectation of silly pride 
in me to say that I do not need, or would not 
be indebted to a political friend ; at the same 
time. Sir, I by no means lay my affairs before 
you thus, to hook my dependant situation on 
your benevolence. If, in my progress of life^, 
an opening should occur where the good offices 
of a gentleman of your public character and po- 
litical consequence might bring me forward, 
shall petition your goodness with the same 
frankness as I now do myself the honour to sub- 
scribe myself, Sic*. 




'i86 



BURNS' WORKS. 



No. CCVTI. 
ADDRESS OF THE SCOTS DISTILLERS, 

TO 

THE RIGHT HON. WILLIAM PITT. 



While pursy burgesses crowd your gate, 
sweating under tlie weight of heavy addresses, 
permit us, the quondam distillers in that part 
of Great Britain called Scotland, to approach 
you, not with venal approbation, but with fra- 
ternal condolence ; not as what you are just 
now, or for some time have been ; but as what, 
in all probability, you will shortly be — We shall 
have the merit of not deserting our friends in 
the day of their calamity, and you will have the 
satisfaction of perusing at least one honest ad- 
dress. You are well acquainted with the dis- 
section of humau nature ; nor do you need the 
assistance of a fellow-creature's bosom to inform 
you, that man is always a selfish, often a perfi- 
dious being This assertion, however the hasty 

conclusions of superficial observation may doubt 
of it, or the raw inexperience of youth may de- 
ny it, those who make the fatal experiment we 
have done, will feel. You are a statesman, and 
consequently are not ignorant of the traffic of 
these corporation compliments. — The little great 
man who drives the borough to market, and the 
very great man who buys the borough in that 
market, they two do the whole business ; and 
you well know, they, likewise, have their price. 
— With that sullen disdain which you can so 
well assume, rise, illustrious Sir, and spurn 
these hireling efforts of venal stupidity. At best 
they are the compliments of a man's friends on 
the morning of his execution : They take a de- 
cent farewell ; resign vou to your fate ; and hur- 
ry away from yOur approaching hour. 

If fame say true, and omens be not very much 
mistaken, you are about to make your exit from 
that world where the sun of gladness gilds the 
paths of prosperous men : permit us, great Sii , 
with the sympathy of fellow-feeling to hail your 
passage to the realms of ruin. 

Whether the sentiment proceed from the sel- 
fishness or cowardice of mankind is immaterial ; 
but to point out to a child of misfortune those 
who are still more unhappy, is to give him some 
degree of positive enjoyment. In this light, S 
our downfal may be again useful to you :- 
Though not exactly in the same way, it is not 
perhaps the first time it has gratified your feel 
ings. It is true, the triumph of your evil star 
IS exceedingly despiteful. — At an age when 
others are the votaries of pleasure, or underlings 
m business, you had attained the highest wish 
of a British Statesman ; and with the ordinary 
date of human life, what a prospect was befure 
vou ! Deeply roo' ed in Royal Favour, you 
overshadowed the .and. The birds of passage, 
which follow ministerial sunshine thiough every 



clime of political faith and manners, flocked to 
your branches ; and the beasts of the field, (the 
lordly possessors of hills and vallies, ) crowded 
under your sha.l3. " But behold a watcher, a 
holy one can») down from heaven, and cried 
aloud, and said thus ; Hew down the tree, and 
cut off his branches ; shake off his leaves, and 
scatter his fruit ; let the beasts get away from 
under it, and the fowls from his branches!" A 
blow from an unthought-of quarter, one of those 
terrible accidents which peculiarly mark the 
hand of Omnipotence, overset your career, and 
laid all your fancied honours in the dust. But 
turn your eyes. Sir, to the tragic scenes of our 
fate. — An ancient nation that for many ages 
had gallantly maintained the unequal struggle 
for independence with her much more powerful 
neighbour, at last agrees to a union which should 
ever after make them one people. In consi- 
deration of certain circumstances, it was cove- 
nanted that the former should enjoy a stipulat- 
ed alleviation in her share of the public bur- 
dens, particularly in that branch of the revenue 
called the Excise. This just privilege has of 
late given great umbrage to some interested, 
powerful individuals of the more potent part of 
the empire, and they have spared no wicked 
pains, under insidious pretexts, to subvert what 
they dared not openly to attack, from the dread 
which they yet entertained of the spirit of their 
ancient enemies. 

In this conspiracy we fell ; nor did we alone 
suffer, our country was deeply wounded. A 
number of (we will say) respectable individuals, 
largely engaged in trade, where we were not 
only useful but absolutely necessary to our coun- 
try in her dearest interest ; we, with all that 
was near and dear to us, were sacrificed with- 
out remorse, to the infernal deity of political ex- 
pediency ! We fell to gratify the wishes of dark 
envy, and the views of unprincipled ambition ! 
Your foes. Sir, were avowed ; were too brave 
to take an ungenerous advantage ; yoii fell in 
the face of day. — On the contrary, our enemies, 
to complete our overthrow, contrived to make 
their guilt appear the villainy of a nation. — 
Youi downfal only drags with you your pri- 
vate friends and partizans : In our misery are 
more or less involved the most numerous, and 
most valuable part of the community — all those 
who immediately depend on the cultivation of 
the soil, from the landlord of a province, down 
to the lowest hind. 

Allow us. Sir, yet farther, just to hint at an- 
other rich vein of comfort in the dreary region? 
of adversity ; — the gratulations of an approving 
conscience. In a certain great assembly, of 
which you are a distinguished member, pane- 
gyrics on your private virtues have so often 
j wounded your delicacy, that we shall not dis- 
! tress you with any thing on the subject. There 
is, however, one part of your public conduct 
which our feelings will not permit us to pass 
in silents ; our gratitude must trespass on your 
mo(lesj>7 we mean, worthy Sir, vour whole 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



387 



behaviour to the Scots DIstilws.— In evil hours, 

when obtrusive recoUectioa presses bitterly on 

the sense, let that, Sir, come like a healing 

angel, and speak the peace to your soul which 

the world can neither give nor take away. 

We have the honour to be, 

Sir, 

Your sympathizing fellow-sufferers. 

And grateful humble Servants, 
John Barleycorn — Preses. 



No. CCVIII. 

TO THE HON. THE PROVOST, BAIL- 
IES, AND TOWN-COUNCIL OF DUM- 
FRIES. 

GENTLEMEN, 

The literary taste and liberal spirit of your 
good town has so ably fiUed the various depart- 
ments of your schools, as to make it a very 
great object for a parent to have his children 
educated in them. Still, to me, a stranger, with 
my large family, and very stinted income, to 
o-ive my young ones that education I wish, at 
the high school-fees which a stranger pays, will 
bear hard upon me. 

Some years ago your good town did me the 
honour of making me an honorary burgess. — 
Will you allow me to request that this mark of 
distinction may extend so far, as to put me on 
the footing of a real freeman of the town, in 
the schools ? 



If you are so very kind as to grant my re- 
quest,* it will certainly be a constant incentive 
to me to strain every nerve where I can offi- 
cially serve you ; and will, if possible, increase 
that grateful respect with which I have the ho- 
nour to be, 

Gentlemen, 
Your devoted humble Servant. 



No. CCIX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP, IN LONDON. 

Dumfries, 20th December, 1795. 
I HAVE been prodigiously disappointed in this 
London journey of yours. In the first place, 
when your last to me reached Dumfries, I was 
in the ' country, and did not return uutd too 
late to answer your letter ; in the next place, 
I thought you would certainly take this route ; 
and now I know not what is become of you, or 
whether this may reach you at all. God grant 



that it may find you and yours in prospering 
health and good spirits. Do let me hear from 
you the soonest possible. 

As I hope to get a frank from my friend 
Captain Miller, I shall, every leisure hour, take 
up the pen, and gossip away whatever comes 
first, prose or poesy, sermon or song. In this 
last article, I have abounded of late. I have 
often mentioned to you a superb publication of 
Scottish songs which is making its appearance 
in your great metropolis, and where I have the 
honour to preside over the Scottish verse, as nr 
less a personage than Peter Pindar does over 
the English. I wrote the following for a fa- 
vourite air. 



December 29. 
Since I began this letter I have been ap- 
pointed to act in the capacity of supervisor here, 
and I assure you, what with the load of business, 
and what with that business being new to me, I 
could scarcely have commanded ten minutes to 
have spoken to you, had you been in town, 
much less to have written you an epistle. This 
appointment is only temporary, and during the 
illness of the present incumbent ; but I look 
forward to an early period when I shall be ap- 
pointed in full form : a consummation devout- 
ly to be wished ! My political sins seem to be 
forgiven me. 



• This request was immediately complied with. 



This is the season (New-year's-day is now 
my date) of wishing ! ,and mine are most fer 
vently offered up for you ! May life to you be a 
positive blessing while it lasts, for your own 
sake ; and that it may yet be greatly prolonged, 
is my wish for my own sake, and for the sake 
of the rest of yotir friends ! What a transient 
business is life ! Very lately I was a boy ; but 
t'other day I was a young man ; and I already 
begin to feel the rigid fibre and stiffening joints 
of old age coming fast o'er my frame. With 
all my follies of youth, and, I fear, a few vices 
of manhood, still' I congratulate myself on hav- 
ing had, in early days, religion strongly impress- 
ed on my mind. I have nothing to say to any 
one as to which sect he belongs to, or what 
creed he believes ; but I look on the man who 
is firmly persuaded of infinite wisdom and good- 
ness, superintending and directing every cir- 
cumstance that can happen in his Ic* — I felici- 
tate such a man as having a solid foundation for 
his mental enjoyment ; a firm prop and sure 
stay, in the hour of difficulty, trouble, and dis- 
tress ; and a never-failing anchor of hope, 
he looks beyond the grave. 



^hen 



January 12. 
You will have seen our worthy and ingeni- 
ous fnea I, the Doctor, long ere this. 1 hope 



388 



BURNS' WORKS. 



be is well, and beg to be remembered to bim. 
I bave just been reading over again, I dare say 
for tbe hundred and fiftieth time, his View of 
Society and Manners ; and still I read it with 
delight. His humour is perfectly original — it 
is neither the humour of Addison, nor Swift, 
nor Sterne, nor of any body but Dr. Moore. 
By the bye, you have deprived me of Zeluco ; 
remember that, when you are disposed to rake 
up the sins of my neglect from among the ashes 
of laziness. 

He has paid me a pretty compliment, by 
quoting me in his last publication. • 



No. CCX. 
TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

20fA January, 1796. 

I CANNOT express my gratitude to you for 
allowing me a longer perusal of Anacharsis. 
In fact, I never met with a book that bewitch- 
ed me so much ; and I, as a member of the li- 
brary, must warmly feel the obligation you have 
laid us under. Indeed to me the obligation is 
stronger than to any other individual of our so- 
ciety ; as Anacharsis is an indispensable desi- 
deratum to a son of the muses. 

The health you wished me in your morning's 
card, is, I think, flown from me for ever. I 
have not been able to leave my bed to-day till 
about an hour ago. These wickedly unlucky 
advertisements I lent (I did wrong) to a friend, 
and I am ill able to go in quest of him. 

The muses have not quite forsaken me. The 
following detached stanzas I intend to interweave 
n some disastrous tale of a shepherd. 



scarcely begun to recover from thai Aock, when 
I became myself the victim of a most severe 
rheumatic fever, and long the die spun doubtful 
until after many weeks of a sick-bed, it seems 
to have turned up life, and I am beginning to 
crawl across my room, and once indeed have 
been before my own door in the street. 

When pleasure fascinates the mental sight. 

Affliction purifies the visual ray. 
Religion hails tbe drear, the untried nigbt, 

That shuts, for ever shuts ! life's doubtful 
day. 



CCXII. 
TO MRS. RIDDEL, 

WHO HAD DESIRED HIM TO GO TO THE BIRTH 
DAY ASSEMBLY ON THAT DAY TO SHEW HIS 
LOYALTY. 

ith June, 1 796. 
I AM in such miserable health as to be utter- 
ly incapable of showing my loyalty in any way. 
Racked as I am with rheumatisms, I meet every 
face with a greeting like that of Balak to Ba- 
laam — " Come curse me Jacob ; and come de- 
fy me Israel !" So say I — Come curse me that 
east wind ; and come, defy me the north ! 
"Would you have me, in such circumstances, to 
copy you out a love song ? 



No. CCXL 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

B\st January, 1796. 
These many months you have been two 
packets in my debt — what sin of ignorance I 
have committed against so highly valued a 
friend, I am utterly at a loss to guess. Alas ! 
Madam, ill can I afford, at this time, to be de- 
prived of any of the small remnant of my plea- 
sures. I have lately drunk deep of the cup of 
affliction. The autumn robbed me of my only 
daughter and darling child, and that at a dis- 
tance too, and so rapidly, as to put it out of my 
power to pay the last the duties to her. I had 



I may perhaps see you on Saturday, but I 

will not be at the ball Why should I? " man 

delights not me, nor woman either !" Can you 
supply me with the song. Let us all be unhap- 
py together? — do if you can, and oblige le 
pauvre miserable R. B. 



No. CCXIIL 

Tu PJR. JAMES JOHNSON, Edinburgh. 

Dumfries, July 4, 1796. 
How are you, my dear friend, and how comes 
on your fifth volume ? You may probably 
think that for some time past I have neglected 
you and your work ; but, alas ! the hand of 
pain, and sorrow, and care, has these many 
months lain heavy on me ! Personal and do- 
mestic affliction have almost entirely banished 
that alacrity and life with which I used to woo 
the rural muse of Scotia. 



You are a good, worthy, honest fellow, and 
have a good right to live in this world — because 



fon deserve it. Many a merry meeting this 
publication has given us, and possible it may 
give us more, though, alas ! I fear it. This 
protracting, slow, consuming illness which 
hangs over me, will, I doubt much, my ever 
dear friend, arrest my sun before he has well 
reached his middle career, and will turn over 
the poet to far other and more important con- 
cerns than studying the brilliancy of wit, or the 
pathos of sentiment ! However, hope is the 
cordial of the human heart, and I endeavour to 
cherish it as well as I can. 

Let me hear from you as soon as convenient. 
— Your work is a great one ; and now that it 
is near finished, I see, if we were to begin 
again, two or three things that might be mend- 
ed ; yet I will venture to prophecy, that to fu- 
ture ages your publication will be the text- 
book and standard of Scottish song and music. 

I am ashamed to ask another favour of you, 
because you have been so very good already ; 
but my wife has a very particular friend of hers, 
a young lady who sings well, to whom she 
wishes to present the Scots Musical Museum.* 
If you have a spare copy, will you be so oblig- 
ing as to send it by the very first -FZy, as I am 
anxious to have it soon. 

Yours ever, 
ROBERT BURNS. 



No. CCXIV. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Brow, Sea-bathing Quarters, Ith July, 1796. 

MY DEAR CUNNINGHAM, 

I RECEIVED yours here this moment, and am 
indeed highly flattered with the approbation of 
the literary circle you mention ; a literary circle 
inferior to none in the two kingdoms. Alas ! 
my friend, I fear the voice of the bard will soon 
be heard among you no more ! for these eight or 
ten months I have been ailing, sometimes bed- 
fast and sometimes not ; but these last three 
months I have been tortured with an excruciat- 
ing rheumatism, which has reduced me to near- 
ly the last stage. You actually would not know 
me if you saw me. Pale, emaciated, and so 
feeble, as occasionally to need help from my chair 
— my spirits fled ! fled ! — but I can no more on 
the subject — only the medical folks tell me that 
my last and only chance is bathing and country 



* In this humble and delicate manner did poor 
Burns ask for a copy of a work of which he was prin- 
cipally the founder, and to which he had contributed, 
gratuitously, not less than 184 original, altered, and 
collected songs! The Editor has seen 180 transcribed 
by his own hand, for the Museum. 

This letter was written on the 4th of July, — the poet 
died on the 21st. No other letters of this interesting 
period have been discovered, except one addressed to 
Mrs. Dunlop, of the 12th of July, which Dr. Currie 
very properly supposes to be the Isst production of the 
4yiii£ bard — Cromek. 



quarters, and riding. The deuce of the mattef 
is this ; when an exciseman is off duty, his sa- 
lary is reduced to ^35 instead of ^50 — What 
way, in the name of thrift, shall I maintain my- 
self and keep a horse in country quarters — with 
a wife and five children at home, on ^35 ? 
mention this, because I had intended to beg your 
utmost interest, and that of all the friends you 
can muster, to move our Commissoners of Ex- 
cise to grant me the full salary. I dare say you 
know them all personally. If they do not grant 
it me, I must lay my account with an exit truly 
en poete — if I die not of disease, I must perish 
with hunger. 

I have sent you one of the songs ; the other 
my memory does not serve me with, and I have 
no copy here ; but I shall be at home soon, 
when I will send it you. Apropos to being at 
home, Mrs. Bui-ns threatens in a week or two 
to add one more to my paternal charge, which, 
if of the right gender, I intend shall be introduc- 
ed to the world by the respectable designation of 
Alexander Ciinningham. Burns : My last was 
James Glencairn ; so you can have no objec- 
tion to the company of nobility. Farewell 



No. CCXV 

TO MRS BURNS. 

MT DEAREST LOVE, Brow, Thursday, 

I DELAYED writing until I could tell yon 
what effijct sea-bathing was likely to produce. 
It would be injustice to deny that it has eased 
my pains, and I think has strengthened me ; 
but my appetite is still extremely bad. No flesh 
nor fish can I swallow ; porridge and milk are 
the only thing I can taste. I am very happy to 
hear, by Miss Jess Lewars, that you are well. 
My very best and kindest compliments to her 
and to all the children. I will see you on Sun- 
day. Your affectionate husband, R, B, 



CCXVI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

M fiAM, \2th July, 1796. 

HAVE written you so often, without recei- 
ving any answer, that I would not trouble you 
again, but for the circumstances in which I am. 
An illness which has long hung about me, in 
all probability will speedily send me beyond that 
bourne whence no traveller returns. Your 
friendship, with which for many years you ho- 
noured me, was a friendship dearest to my soul. 
Your couTersation, and especially your corre- 
spondence, were at once highly entertaining and* 
instructive. With what pleasure did I use to 
jreak up the seal ! The remembrance yet adds 



390 



BURNS' WORKS. 



^ne pulse more to my poor palpitating heart. 
I i'Vewell ! ! ! 

R. B. 



The above is supposed to be the last produc- 
„on of Robert Burns, who died on the 21st 
of the mouth, nine days afterwards. He had, 
however, the pleasure of receiving a satisfactory 
explanation of his friend's silence, and an assur- 
ftoce of the coQtinuance of her friendship to hie 



widow and children ; an assurance that has iw*&a 
amply fulfilled. 

It is probable that the greater part of her let- 
ters to him were destroyed by our bard aboa 
the time that this last was written. He did 
not foresee that his own letters to her were i3 
appear in print, nor conceive the disappoist- 
ment that will be felt, that a few of this excel* 
lent lady's have act served te enrich 4Bd tdft^ 
the collection. 



391 



THE POET'S CORRESPONDENCE 



WITH 



MR. GEORGE THOMSON 



The Poet, besides his ample contributions to the Musical Museum, pubHsned by Johnsoii, e.*. 
gaged in the somewhat similar, but far more extended undertaking of Mr. George Thomson, 
entitled Select Melodies of Scotland,— a. Work more systematically planned, and scienti6cally 
executed, as to the Music— and more chastened in the composition and sentiment of the 
Songs, than any of its precursors ; and which still maintains its superiority over all other col- 
lections as the National Repertory of Scottish Song, both as to the poetry and music. The 
following Correspondence shews the rise and progress, with much of the interesting details 
of our Poet's contributions to Mr. Thomson's Work : — 



No. I. 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET, 

SOLICITING HIS CO-OPERATION. 

iiR, Edinburgh, September 1792. 

For some years past, I have, with a friend or 
two, employed many leisure hours in selecting 
and collating the most favourite of our national 
melodies for publication. We have engagt-d 
Pleyel, the most agreeable composer living, to 
put' accompaniments to these, and also to com- 
pose an instrumental prelude and conclusion to 
each air, the better to fit them for concerts, both 
public and private. To render this work per- 
fect, we are desirous to have the poetry impro- 
ved, wherever it seems unworthy of the music ; 
and that it is so in many instances, is allowed 
by every one conversant with our musical col- 
lections. The editors of these seem in general 
to have depended on the music proving an ex- 
cuse for the verses ; and hence, some charming 
melodies are united to mere nonsense and dog- 
grel, while others are accommodated with rhymes 
so loose and indelicate, as cannot be sung in de- 
cent company. To remove this reproach, would 
be an easy task to the author of The Cotter's 
Saturday Night ; and, for the honour of Cale- 
donia, I would fain hope he may be induced to 
take up the pen. If so, we shall be enabled to 
present the pubLe with a collection infinitely 
more interesting than any that has yet appear- 
ed, and acceptable to all persons of taste, whe- 
ther they wish for correct melodies, delicate ac- 
companiments, or jharacteristic verses We 



will esteem your poetical assistance a particular 
favour, besides paying any reasonable price you 
shall please to demand for it. Profit is quite a 
secondary consideration with us, and we are re- 
solved to spare neither pains nor expense on the 
publication. Tell me frankly, then, whether 
you will devote your leisure to writing twenty 
or twenty-five songs, suited to the particular 
melodies which I am prepared to send you. A 
few songs, exceptionable only in some of their 
verses, I will likewise submit to your considera- 
tion ; leaving it to you, either to mend these, 
or make new songs in their stead. It is super- 
fluous to assure you that I have no intention to 
displace any of the sterling old songs ; those 
only will be removed, which appear quite si'V, 
or absolutely indecent. Even these shall all be 
examined by Mr. Burns, and if he is of opinion 
that any of them are deserving of the music, in 
such cases no divorce shall take place. 

Relying on the letter accompanying this to be 
forgiven for the liberty I have taken in address, 
ing you, I am, with great esteem, Sir, yom 
most obedient humble servant, 

G. THOMSON 



No. II. 

THE POET*^S ANSWER. 

SIR, Dumfries, \Qth Sept. 1792. 

I HAVE just this moment got your letter. A« 
the request you make to me will positivelv adi 



L. 



BURNS' WORKt^. 



to my enjoyments in complying with it, I stall 
•>nter into your undertaking with all the small 
po. lion of abilities I have, strained to their ut- 
;iiost exertion by the impulse of enthusiasm. 
Only, don't hun y me : " Deil tak the hind- 
most" is by no means the cri de guerre of my 
muse. Will you, as I am inferior to none of 
yota in enthusiastic attachment to the poetry and 
music of old Caledonia, and, since you request 
it, have cheerfully promised my mite of assist- 
ance — will you let me have a list of your airs, 
with the first line of the printed verses you in- 
tend for them, that I may have an opportunity 
of suggesting any alteration that may occur to 
me. You know 'tis in the way of my trade ; 
still leaving you, gentlemen, the undoubted right 
of publisher^, to approve, or reject, at your plea- 
sure, for youi "wn ptMicatioi^ Apropos ! if 
you are for Enghs^^ ^erses, -^ere i^. *^u niy part, 
an end of the matter. Wheth _ ' " the ^^''^plicity 
of the ballad, or the pathos of the song, I can 
only hope to please myself in being allowed at 
least a sprinkling of our native tongue. Eng- 
lish verses, particularly the works of Scotsmen, 
that have merit, are certainly very eligible. 
Tweedside ; Ah the poor shepherd's mournful 
fate ! Ah Chloris, could I now but sit, &c. 
you cannot mend : But such insipid stuff as, 
To Fanny fair coidd I impart, &c. usually set 
to The Mill, Mill O, is a disgrace to the col- 
lections in which it has already appeared, and 
would doubly disgrace a collection that will have 
the very superior merit of yours. But more of 
this in the farther prosecution of the business, 
if I am called on for my strictures and amend- 
ments — I say, amendments ; for I will not alter 
except where I myself at least think that I 
amend. 

As to any remuneration, you may think my 
songs either above or below price ; for they 
shall absolutely be the one or the other. In the 
honest enthusiasm with which I embark in your 
undertaking, to talk of money, wages, fee, hire, 
&c. would be downright prostitution of soul ! 
A proof of each of the songs that I compose or 
amend, I shall receive as a favour. In the rus- 
tic phrase of the season, " Gude speed the 
wark !*' 

I am, Sir, your very humble Servant, 
R. BURNS. 

P. S. — I have some particular reasons for 
wishing my interference to be known as little as 
possible. 



No. III. 



MR. THOMSON IN REPLY. 

THAU SIR, Edinburgh, ]3th Oct. 1798. 

I RECEivEn, with much satisfaction, your 
pleasant and obliging letter, and I return my 



warmest arknovvledgments for the enthusiasm 
with which you have entered into our underta- 
king. We have now no doubt of being able tc 
produce a collection, highly deserving of public 
attention, in all respects. 

I agree with you in thinking English verses, 
that have merit, very eligible, wherever new 
verses are necessary ; because the English be- 
comes every year, more and more, the language 
of Scotland ; but, if you mean that no English 
verses, except those by Scottish authors, ought 
to be admitted, I am half inclined to differ from 
you. I shouid 'consider it unpardonable to sa- 
crifice one good si,^ • in the Scottish dialect, to 
make room for Englib.. ,erses ; but, if we can 
select a few excellent ones suited to the unpro- 
vided or ill-provided airs, would it not he the 
very bigotry of literary patriotism to reject such 
nier-ely because the authors were born siuiih of 
the Tweed? Our sweet air. My Nanmt O, 
which in the collections is joined to the poorest 
stuff that Allan Ramsay ever wrote, beginning, 
While some for pleasure pawn their health, an- 
swers so finely to Dr. Percy's beautiful song 
O Nancy wilt thou go with me, that one woula 
think he wrote it on purpose for the air. How- 
ever, it is not at all our wish to confine you to 
English verses : you shall freely be allowed a 
sprinkling of your native tongue, as you elegant- 
ly express it ; and moreover, we will patiently 
wait your own time. One thing only I beg, 
which is, that however gay and sportive the 
muse may be, she may always be decent. Let 
her not write what beauty would blush to speak, 
nor wound that charming delicacy which forms 
the most precious dowry of our daughters. I 
do not conceive the song to be the most proper 
vehicle for witty and brilliant conceits : simpli- 
city, I believe, should be its prominent feature ; 
but, in some of our songs, the writers have con- 
founded simplicity with coarseness and vulga- 
rity ; although, between the one and the other, 
as Dr. Beattie well observes, there is as great a 
difference as between a plain suit of clothes and 
a bundle of rags. The humorous ballad, or pa- 
thetic complaint, is best suited to our artless 
melodies ; . and more interesting indeed in all 
songs than the most pointed wit, dazzling de- 
scriptions, and flowery fancies. 

With these trite observations, I send you eleven 
of the songs, for which it is my wish to substi 
tute others of your writing. I shall soon trans 
mit the rest, and, at the same time, a prospectus 
of the whole collection : and you may believe 
we will receive any h nts that you are so kind 
as to give for improving the work, with th« 
greatest pleasure and thankfulness. 

I remain, Dear Sir, &c* 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



393 



No. IV. 
THE P0E1 TO MR. THOMSON, 

WITH " THE LEA- RIG." 
MY DEAR SIR, 

Let me tell you that you are too fastidious 
in your ideas of songs and ballads. I own that 
your criticisms are just ; the songs you specify 
in your list have all hut one the faults you re- 
mark in them ; but who shall mend the matter ? 
Who shall rise up and say — Go to, I will make 
a better ? For instance, on reading over The 
Lea-rig, I immediately set about trying my 
hand on it, and, after all, I could make nothing 
more of it than the following, which, Heaven 
knows, is poor enough : 

{Seep, 244.) 

Your observation as to the aptitude of Dr. 
Percy's ballad to the air Nannie O, is just. It 
is besides, perhaps, the most beautiful ballad in 
the English language. But let me remark to 
you, that, in the sentiment and style of our 
Scottish airs, there is a pastoral simplicity, a 
something that one may call the Doric style and 
dialect of vocal music, to which a dash of our 
native tongue and manners is particularly, nay 
peculiarly, apposite. For this reason, and, upon 
my honour, for this reason alone, I am of opi- 
nion (but, as I told you before, my opinion is 
yours, freely yours, to approve, or reject, as you 
please), that my ballad of Nannie O might per- 
haps do for one set of verses to the tune. Now 
don't let it enter into your head, that you are 
under any necessity of taking my verses. I have 
long ago made up my mind as to my own re- 
putation in the business of authorship ; and 
have nothmg to be pleased or oifended at, in 
your adoption or rejection of my verses. Though 
you should reject one half of what I give you, 
I shall be pleased with your adopting the other 
half, and shall continue to serve you with the 
same assiduity. 

In the printed copy of ray Nannie O, the 
name of the river is horridly prosaic. I will 
alter it, 

" Behind yon hills where Lugar flows." 

Girvan is the name of the river that suits the 
idea of the stanza best, but Lugar is the most 
agreeable modulation of syllables. 

I will soon give you a great many more re- 
marks on this business ; but 1 have just now 
an opportunity of conveying you this scrawl, free 
©f postage, an expense that it is ill able to pay : 
8o, with my best compliments to honest Allan, 
Good be wi' ye, &c. 

Friday night. 



Saturday Morning. 
As I find I have still an hour to spare this 



morning before my conveyance goes away, I 
will give you Nannie O at length. 

{Seep.2\S.) 

Your remarks on Ewe-hughts, Marion^ «re 
just : still it has obtained a place among out 
more classical Scottish songs ; and what with 
many beauties in its composition, and more pre- 
judices in its favour, you will not find it easy 
to supplant it. 

In my very early years, when I was thinking 
of going to the West Indies, I took the follow- 
ing farewell of a dear girl. It is quite trifling, 
and has nothing of the merits of JEwe-bughts ; 
but it will fill up this page. You must know, 
that all my earlier love-songs were the breath- 
ings of ardent passion, and though it might have 
been easy in after-times to have given them a 
polish, yet that polish, to me, whose they were, 
and who perhaps alone cared for them, would 
have defaced the legend of my heart, whicfc 
was so faithfully inscribed on them. Their un- 
couth simplicity was, as they say of wines, their 
race. 

( Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, p. 243.^ 

Gala Water and Auld Hob Morris, I think, 
will most probably be the next subject of my 
musings. However, even on my verses, speak 
out your criticisms with equal frankness. My 
wish is, not to stand aloof, the uncomplying 
bigot of opiniatrete, but cordially to join issu« 
with you in the furtherance of the work. 



No. V. 



THE POET TO MR THOMSON. 

November 8th, 1792 
If you mean, my dear Sir, that all the songs 
in your collection shall be poetry of the first 
merit, I am afraid you will find more difficulty 
in the undertaking than you are aware of. 
There is a peculiar rhythmus in many of our 
airs, and a necessity of adapting syllables to the 
emphasis, or what I would call the feature-notes 
of the tune, that cramp the poet, and lay him 
under almost insuperable difficulties. For in- 
stance, in the air, My wife^s a wanton wee 
thing, if a few lines smooth and pretty can be 
adapted to it, it is all you can expect. The 
following were made extempore to it ; and 
though, on farther study, I might give you 
something more profound, yet it might not suit 
the light-horse gallop of the air so well as this 
random clink. 

(^My wife^s a winsome wee thing, p. 214.) 

I have just been looking over the CoUier' 



394 



BURNS* WORKS. 



bonny Dochter ; and if the following rhapsody, 
which I composed the other day, on a charming 

Ayrshire girl, Miss , as she passed through 

this place to England, will suit your taste bet- 
ter than the Collier Lassie, fall on and wel- 
come. 

( O saw ye bonnie Lesslie, p. 194.) 

I have hitherto deferred the sublimer, more 
pathetic airs, until more leisure, as they will take, 
and deserve, a greater eifort. However, they 
are all put into your hands, as clay into the 
hands of the potter, to make one vessel to ha- 
noui, and another to dishonour. Farewell, &c. 



No. VI. 



THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around. 
The castle o' Montgomery. ( See p. 203. 

MY DEAR SIR, 14M November, 1792. 

I AGREE with you that the song, Katherine 
Ogie, is very poor stuff, and unworthy, alto- 
gether unworthy, of so beautiful an air. I tried 
to mend it, but the awkward sound Ogie recur- 
ring so often in the rhyme, spoils every attempt 
at introducing sentiment into the piece. The 
"oregoing song pleases myself ; I think it is in 
aiy happiest manner ; you will see at first glance 
that it suits the air. The subject of the song is 
one of the most interesting passages of my youth- 
ful days ; and, I own that I should be much 
flattered to see the verses set to an air which 
would insure celebrity. Perhaps, after all, 'tis 
the still glowing prejudice of my heart, that 
throws a borrowed lustre over the merits of the 
composition. 

I have partly taken your idea of Auld Rob 
Morris. I have adopted the two first verses, 
and am going on with the song on a new plan, 
which promises pretty well. I take up one or 
another, just as the bee of the moment buzzes 
in my bonnet-lug ; and do you, sans ceremonie, 
make what use you choose of the pi'oductions. 
Adieu ! &c. 



1 regret that your song for the Lea-rig is so 
short ; the air is easy, soon sung, and very pleas 
ing ; so that, if the singer stops at the end of 
two stanzas, it is a pleasure lost ere it is well 



No. VII. 



MR. THOMPSON TO THE POET. 

DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, Nov. 1798. 

I WAS just going to write to you, that on 
meeting with your Nannie I had fallen violent- 
ly in love with her. I thank you, therefore, for 
sending the charming rustic to me, in the dress 
you wish her to appear before the public. She 
does you great credit, and will soon be admitted 
uito the best company. 



Although a dash of our native tongue and 
manners is doubtless peculiarly congenial, and 
appropriate to our melodies, yet I shall be able 
to present a considerable number ctf the very 
Flowers of English Song, well adapted to those 
me.ouies, which in England at least will be the 
means of recommending them to still greater at- 
tention than they have procured there. But 
you will observe, my plan is, that every air shall 
in the first place have verses wholly by Scottish 
poets ; and that those of English writers shal. 
follow as additional songs, for the choice of the 
singer. 

What you say of the Ewe-bughts is just ; 1 
admire it, and never meant to supplant it. All 
I requested was, that you would try your hand 
on some of the inferior stanzas, which are appa- 
rently no part of the original song ; but this I 
do not urge, because the song is of sufficient 
length though those inferior stanzas be omitted, 
as they will be by the singer of taste. You must 
not think I expect all the songs to be of superla- 
tive merit ; that were an unreasonable expecta 
tion. I am sensible that no poet can sit down dog- 
gedly to pen verses, and succeed well at all times. 

I am highly pleased with your humorous and 
amorous rhapsody on JBonnie Lesslie ; it is a 
thousand times better than the Collier's Lassie. 
" The deil he cou'dna siaith thee," &c. is an ec- 
centric and happy thought. Do you not think, 
however, that the names of such old heroes as 
Alexander, sound rather queer, unless in pom- 
pous or mere burlesque verse ? Instead of the 
line " And never made anither," I would hum- 
bly suggest, "And ne'er made sic anither;'' 
and I would fain have you substitute some other 
line for " Return to Caledonie," in the last 
verse, because I think this alteration of the or- 
thography, and of the sound of Caledonia, dis- 
figures the word, and renders it Hudihrastic. 

Of the other song, My wife's a winsome wee 
thing, I think the first eight lines very good : 
but I do not admire the other eight, because four 
of them are a bare repetition of the first verse. 
I have been trying to spin a stanza, but could 
make nothing better than the following : do you 
mend it, or, as Yorick did with the love-letter, 
whip it up in your own way. " 

O leeze me on my wee thing. 
My bonnie blythsome wee thing ; 
Sae lang's I hae my wee thing, 
ril think my lot divine. 
Tho* warld's care we share o't, 
And may see meickle mair o't, 
Wi' her I'll blythly bear it, 
And ne'er a word repine. 



You perceive, my dear Sii I avail mvaelf of 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



395 



the liberty whicli you condescend to allow me, 
by speaking freely what I think. Be assured, 
it is not my disposition to pick cut the faults of 
any poem or picture I see : my first and chief 
object is to discover and be delighted with the 
beauties of the piece. If I sit down to examine 
critically, and at leisure, what perhaps you have 
written in haste, I may happen to observe care- 
less lines, the re- perusal of which might lead 
you to improve them. The wren will often see 
what has been overlooked by the eagle. 

I remain yours faithfully, &c. 

P. S. Your verses upon Highland Mary, are 
just come to hand : they breathe the genuine 
spirit of poetry, and, like the music, will last for 
ever. Such verses united to such an air, with 
the delicate harmony of Pleyel superadded, might 
form a treat worthy of being presented to Apollo 
himself. I have heard the sad story of your 
Mary : you always seem inspired when you write 
of her 



No. VIII. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

Dumfries, \st December, 1792. 
Your alterations of my Nannie O are per- 
fectly right. So are those of " My wife's a 
wanton wee thing." Your alteration of the 
second stanza is a positive improvement. Now, 
my dear Sir, with the freedom which charac- 
terises our correspondence, I must not, cannot 
alter *' Bonnie Lesslie." You are right, the 
word " Alexander" makes the line a little un 
couth, but I think the thought is pretty. Of 
Alexander, beyond all other heroes, it may be 
said, in the sublime language of scripture, that 
*' he went forth conquering and to conquer." 

" For nature made her what she is, 
And never made anither," (such a person as 
she is. ) 

This is in my opinion more poetical than 
" Ne*er made sic anither." However, it is im- 
material : Make it either way. " Caledonie," 
I agree with you, is not so good a word as could 
be wished, though it is sanctioned in three or 
four instances by Allan Ramsay ; but I cannot 
help it. In short, that species of stanza is the 
most difficult that I have ever tried. 

The '* Lea-rig" is as follows. (Here the 
poet gives the two first stanzas as before, p. 244, 
with the following in addition.) 

The hunter loe's the morning sun, 
To rouse the mountain deer, my jo ; 

4t noon the fisher seeks the glen. 
Along the burn to steer, my jo j 



Gie me the hour o' gloamin grey, 
It mak's my heart sae cheery, O 

To meet thee on the lea- rig, 
My ain kind dearie, O. 

I am interrupted. Yours, &C. 



No. IX. 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

(Auld Rob Morris, p. 192.) 
(Duncan Gray, p. 199.) 

Uh December, 1792. 
The foregoing I submit, my dear Sir, to youi 
better judgment. Acquit them or condema 
them as seemeth good in your sight. Duncan 
Gray is that kind of light-horse gallop of aa 
air, which precludes sentiment. The ludicrous 
is its ruling feature. 



No. X. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON 

(Poortith Catild, p. 222.) 
( Galla Water, />. 201.) 

January 1793. 

Many returns of the season to you, my dear 
Sir. How comes on your publication ? will 
these two foregoing be of any service to you ? 
I should like to know what songs you print to 
each tune, besides the verses to which it is set. 
In short, I would wish to give you my opinion 
on all the poetry you publish. You know it 
is my trade, and a man in the way of his trade 
may suggest useful hints, that escape men ol 
much superior parts and endowments in other 
things. 

If you meet with my dear and much valued 
C. greet him in my name, with the compliments 
of the season. 

, Yours, &c. 



No XI. 



MR. THOMSON TO THE POET, 

WITH A POSTSCRIPT FROM THE HON. A. ERSKINE. 

Edinburgh, January 20th, 1793. 
You make me happy, my dear Sir, and thou- 
sands will be happy to see the charmings songs 
you have sent me. Many merry returns of the 
season to you, and may you long continue among 
the sons and daughters of Caledonia, to delight 
them, and to honour yourself. 



S96 



BURNS'S WORKS. 



The lour last songs with which you favoured 
me, viz. Auld Rob Morris, Duncan Gray, 
Galla Water, and Cauld Kail, are admirable. 
Duncan is indeed a lad of grace, and his humour 
will endear him to every body. 

The distracted lover in Auld Rob, and the 
nappy shepherdess in Galla Water, exhibit an 
excellent contrast ; they speak from genuine 
feeling, and powerfully touch the heart. 

The number of songs which 1 had originally 
in view was limited, but I now resolve to in- 
clude every Scotch air and song worth sing- 
ing, leaving none behind but mere gleanings, 
to which the publishers of omnegatherum are 
welcome. I would rather be the editor of a 
collection from which nothing could be taken 
away, than of one to which nothing could be 
added. We intend presenting the subscribers 
with two beautiful stroke engravings ; the one 
characteristic of the plaintive, and the other of 
the lively songs ; and I have Dr. Beattie's pro- 
mise of an essay upon the subject of our na- 
tional music, if his health will permit him to 
write it. As a number of our songs have doubt- 
less been called forth by particular events, or by 
the charms of peerless damsels, there must be 
many curious anecdotes relating to them. 

The late Mr. Tytler of Woodhouselee, I be- 
lieve, knew more of this than any body, for he 
joined to the pursuits of an antiquary, a taste 
for poetry, besides being a man of the world, 
and possessing an enthusiasm for music beyond 
most of his contemporaries. He was quite plea- 
sed with this plan of mine, for I may say, it 
has been solely managed by me, and we had se- 
veral long conversations about it, when it was in 
embryo. If I could simply mention the name 
of the heroine of each song, and the incident 
which occasioned the verses, it would be grati- 
fying. Pray, will you send me any information 
of this sort, as well with regard to your own 
songs, as the old ones ? 

To all the favourite songs of the plaintive or 
pastoral kind, will be joined the delicate accom- 
paniments, &c. of Pleyel. To those of the co- 
mic or humorous class, I think accompaniments 
scarcely necessary ; they are chiefly fitted for 
the conviviality of the festive board, and a tune- 
ful voice, with a proper delivery of the words, 
renders them perfect. Nevertheless, to these I 
propose adding bass accompaniments, because 
then they are fitted either for singing, or for in- 
strumental performance, when there happens to 
be no singer. I mean to employ our right 
trusty friend Mr. Clarke to set the bass to these, 
which he assures me he will do, con amore, and 
with much greater attention than he ever be- 
stowed on any thing of the kind. But for this 
last class of airs, I will not attempt to find more 
than one set of verses. 

That eccentric bard Peter Pindar, has started 
I know not how many dlfllculties, about wri- 
ting for the airs I sent to him, because of the 
peculiarity of their measure, and the trammels 



for your perusal the only one I have yet got 
from him, being for the fine air " Lord Gre- 
gory." The Scots verses printed with that air, 
are taken from the middle of an old ballad, call- 
ed, The Ijass of Lochroyan, which I do not 
admire. I have set down the air therefore as a 
creditor of yours. Many of the Jacobite songs 
are replete with wit and humour ; might not 
the best of these be included In our volume of 
comic songs ? 



POSTSCRIPT, 

FROM THE HON. A. ERSKINE. 

Mr. Thomson has been so obliging as to give 
me a perusal of your songs. Highland Mary is 
most enchantingly pathetic, and Duncan Gray 
possesses native genuine humour : " spak o' 
lowpin o'er a linn," is a line of itself that should 
make you Immortal. I sometimes hear of you 
from our mutual friend C, who is a most ex- 
cellent fellow, and possesses, above all men I 
know, the charm of a most obliging disposition. 
You kindly promised me, about a year ago, a 
collection of your unpublished productions, reli- 
gious and amorous ; I know from experience 
how Irksome It is to copy. If you will get any 
trusty person In Dumfries to write them over 
fair, I will give Peter Hill whatever money ue 
asks for his trouble ; and I certainly shall not 
betray your confidence. 

I am your hearty admirer, 

ANDREW ERSKINE. 



No. XII. 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

^Qth January, 1793. 

I APPROVE greatly, my dear Sir, of your plans. 
Dr. Beattie's Essay will of Itself be a treasure. 
On my part, I mean to draw up an appendix to 
the Doctor's Essay, containing my stock of an- 
ecdotes, &c. of our Scots songs. All the late 
Mr. Tytler's anecdotes I have by me, taken 
down in the course of my acquaintance with 
him from his own mouth. I am such an en- 
thusiast, that in the course of my several pere- 
grinations through Scotland, I made a pilgri- 
mage to the individual spot from which every 
song took Its rise, " Lochaber," and the " Braes 
of Ballenden," excepted. So far as the locality, 
either from the title of the air, or the tenor of 
the song, could be ascertained, I have paid my 
devotions at the particular shrine of every 
Scotch muse. 

I do not doubt but you might make a very 



hey impose on his flying Pegasus. I subjoin | raluable collection of Jacobite songs — but would 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



397 



it give no offence ? In the mean time, do not 
yau think that some of them, particularly " The 
Sow's tail to Geordie," as an air, with other 
words, might be well worth a place in your 
collection of lively songs ? 

If it were possible to procure songs of merit, 
it would be proper to have one set of Scots 
words to every air, and that the set of words to 
which the notes ought to be set. There is a 
naivete, a pastoral simplicity, in a slight inter- 
mixture of Scots words and phraseology, which 
is more in unison (at least to my taste, and I 
will add, to every genuine Caledonian taste), 
with the simple pathos, or rustic sprightliness of 
our native music, than any EngliRh verses what- 
ever. 

The very name of Peter Pindar, is an acqui- 
sition to your work. His " Gregory" is beau- 
tiful. I have tried to give you a set of stanzas 
in Scots, on the same subject, which are at your 
service. Not that I intend to enter the lists 
with Peter ; that would be presumption indeed. 
My song, though much inferior in poetic merit, 
has I think more of the ballad simplicity in it. 



{Zord Gregory* p. 209.) 

My most respectful compliments to the ho- 
nourable gentleman who favoured me with a 
postscript in your last. He shall hear from me 
and receive his MSS. soon. 



think it very remarkable, either for its meri-ts, 
or demerits. It is impossible (at least I feel it 
so in my stinted powers), to be always origiraal, 
entertaining, and witty. 

What is become of the list, &c. of your songs ? 
I shall be out of all temper with you by and by. 
I have always looked on myself as the prince of 
indolent correspondents, and valued myself ac- 
cordingly ; and I will not, cannot bear rivaldiip 
from you, nor any body else. 



No. XIV. 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

( Wandering Willie, p. 240. ^ 

March, 1793. 
I leave it to you, my dear Sir, to determine 
whether the above, or the old '* Through the 
lang Muir," be the best. 



No. xni. 

*HE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

{Mary Morison, p. 211.) 

MT DEAR SIR, 20th MoTch, 1793. 

The song prefixed is one of my juvenile 
works. I leave it in your hands. I do not 



• The song of Dr. Walcott on the same subject is as 
follows : — 

Ah ope, Lord Gregory, thy door, 

A midnight wanderer sighs; 
Hard rush the rain?,, the tempests roar, 

And lightnings cleave the skies. 

Who comes with woe at this drear night— 

A pilgrim of the gloom ? 
If she whose love did once delight. 

My cot shall yield her room. 

Alas ! thou heard'st a pilgrim mourn. 

That once was priz'd by thee : 
Think of the ring by yonder burn 

Thou gav'st to love and me. 

But should'st thou not poor Marian know, 

I'll turn my feet and part ; 
And think the storms that round me blow, 

Far kinder than thy heart. 

It is but doing justice to Dr. Walcott to mention, 
that his song is the original. Mr. Burns saw it, liked 
it, and immediately wrote the other on the same sub- 
)iect, which is derived from an old Scottish ballad of 
uncertain origin. 



No. XV. 

THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

( Open the Door to Me, O, p. 2}9.) 

I do not know whether this song be really 
mended. 



No. XVI. 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
( True-hearted was he, p. 240.) 



i>o. XVII. 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

Edinburgh, 2d April, 179b. 

I WILL not recognise the title you give your 
self, " the prince of indolent correspondents ;' 
but if the adjective were taken away, I think 
the title would then fit you exactly. It gives 
me pleasure to find you can furnish anecdotes 
with respect to most of the songs : these will 
be a literary curiosity. 

I now send you my list of the songs, which 
I believe will be found nearly complete. I have 
put down the first lines of all the English songs, 
which I propose giving in addition to the Scotch 
verses. If any others occur to you, better adapt- 
ed to the character of the airs pray mentiot 



398 



BURNS* WORKS. 



them, when you favour me with j our strictures I 
upon every thing else relating to the work. 

Pleyel has lately sent me a number of the 
songs, with his symphonies and accompaniments 
added to them. I wish you were here, that I 
might serve up some of them to you with your 
own verses, by way of dessert after dinner. There 
is so much deligl.tful fancy in the symphonies, 
and such a delicate simplicity in the accom- 
paniments : they are indeed beyond all praise. 

I am very much pleased with the several last 
productions of your muse : your Lord Gregory, 
in my estimation, is more interesting than 
Peter's, beautiful as his is ! Your Here Aiva 
Willie must undeigo some alterations to suit 
the air. Mr. Erskine and I have been conning 
it over : he will suggest what is necessary to 
•nake them a fit match. * 

The gentleman I have mentioned, whose fine 
taste you are no stranger to, is so well pleased 
both with the musical and poetical part of our 
work, that he has volunteered his assistance, 
and has already written four songs for it, which, 
by his own desire, I send for your perusal. 



No. XVIII. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

( The Soldier's Return, p. 235.) 
{Meg o' the Mill. p. 2U.) 



No. XIX. 
THL POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

Ith April, 1793. 

Thank you, my dear Sir, for your packet. 
You cannot imagine how much this business of 
composing for your publication has added to my 
enjoyments. What with my early attachment 
to ballads, your book, &c. ballad-making is now 
as completely my hobby-horse, as ever fortifica- 
tion was Uncle Toby's; so I'll e'en canter it 
away till I come to the limit of my race, (God 
grant that I may take the right side of the win- 
ning-post ! ) and then cheerfully looking back 
on the honest folks with whom I have been hap- 
py, I shall say, or sing, " Sae merry as we a' 
hae been !" and raising ray last looks to the whole 
human race, the last words of the voice of Coi- 
la shall be " Good night and joy be wi' you 
a'!" So much for my last words : now for a 
fevv present remarks, as they have occurred at 
random, on looking over your list. 

The first lines of The last time 1 came 6'tr 



i • The gentleman alluded to was Mr. Andrew Ers- 

1 kiiie. 'ITie poet a iopted part of the alterations, and 
( r^eeled the ••est. 



the moor, and several other lines in it, are beau- 
tiful : but in ray opinion — pardon me, revered 
shade of Ramsay ! the song is unworthy of the 
divine air. I shall try to make, or mend. For 
ever. Fortune wilt thou prove, is a charming 
song ; but Logan burn and Logan braes, avf 
sweetly susceptible of rural imagery : I'll try 
that likewise, and if I succeed, the other song 
may class among the English ones. I remem- 
ber the two last last lines of a verse in some of 
the old songs of Logan water, (for I know a 
good many different ones) which I think pretty : 

" Now my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes." 

Mg Patie is a lover gay, is unequal. '* His 
mind is never muddy," is a muddy expression 
indeed. 



' Then I'll resign and marry Pate, 
And syne my cocker nony." 



This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay, or 
your book. My song. Rigs of barley, to the 
same tune, does not altogether please me ; but if 
I can mend it, and thrash a few loose sentiments 
out of it, I will submit it to your consideration. 
The lass o' Pane's mill is one of Ramsay's 
best songs; but there is one loose sentiment in 
it, which my much-valued friend, Mr. Erskine, 
will take into his critical consideration. In Sir 
J. Sinclair's Statistical volumes are two claims, 
one, I think, from Aberdeenshire, and the other 
from Ayrshire, for the honour of this song^. 
The following anecdote, which 1 had from the 
present Sir William Cunningham, of Robert- 
land, who had it of the late John Earl of Lou- 
don, I can on such authorities believe. 

Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon Castle 
with the then Earl, father to Earl John ; and 
one forenoon, riding, or walking out togi^ther, 
his Lordship and Allan passed a sweet roman- 
tic spot on Irvine water, still called " Patie's 
Mill," where a bonnie lass was " tedding hay, 
bareheaded on the green." My Lord observed 
to Allan, that it would be a fine theme for a 
song. Ramsay took the hint, and lingering be- 
hind, he composed the first sketch of 't, which 
he produced at dinner. 

One day I heard Mary say, Is a fine song ; 
but for consistency's sake alter the name " Ado- 
nis." Was there ever such banns published, as 
a purpose of marriage between Adonis and Ma- 
ry'^ \ agree with you that my song. There"*, 
nought but care on every hand, is much superi- 
or to Poortith cauld. The original song, Ths 
mill, mill O, though excellent, is, on account ol 
delicacy, inadmissible ; still I like the title, and 
think a Scottish song would suit the notes best ; 
and let your chosen song, which is very pretty, 
follow, as an English set. The banks of the 
Dee is, you know, literally Langoke to slow 
time. The song is well enough, bat has some 
false imagery in it : for instance. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



3^9 



And sweet'iy the niglitingale sung from the 
tree." 

In the first place, the nightingale sings in a 
,ow bush, but never from a tree ; and in the 
second place, there never was a nightingale seen 
or heard on the banks of the Dee, or on the 
banks of any other river in Scotland. Exotic 
rural imagery is always comparatively flat. If 
I could hit on another stanza equal to The small 
birds rejoice, &c. I do myself honestly avow 
that I think it a superior song. John Ander- 
son my jo — the song to this tune in Johnson's 
Museum, is my composition, and I think it not 
my worst : If it suit you, take it and welcome. 
Your collection of sentimental and pathetic 
Bongs, is, in my opinion, very complete ; but not 
so your comic ones. Where are Tullochgorum, 
Lumps o' puddin, Tibbie Fowler, and several 
others, which, in my humblf judgment, are well 
worthy of preservation ? There is also one sen- 
timental song of mine in the Museum, which 
never was known out of the immediate neigh- 
bourhood, until I got it taken down from a 
country girl's singing. It is called Craigieburn 
wood; and in the opinion of Mr. Clarke, is 
one of our sweetest Scottish songs. He is quite 
an enthusiast about it ; and I would take his 
taste in Scottish music against the taste of most 
connoisseurs. 

You are quite right in inserting the last five 
in your list, though they are certainly Irish. 
Shepherds I have lost my love, is to me a hea 
venly air — what would you think of a set of 
Scottish verses to it ? I have made one to it a 

good while ago, which I think 

. . . . but in its original state is not quite a 
ladv's song. I enclose an altered, not amend- 
ed copy for you, if you choose to set the tune to 
it, and let the Ir'sh verses follow. 

Mr. Erskine's songs are all pretty, but his 
Lone vale is Ai\ ine. Yours, &c. 

Let me know just how you like these random 
hints. 



No. XX. 



MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

Edinburgh, April, 1793. 
I REJOICE to find, my dear Sir, that ballad- 
making continues to be your hobby-horse, 
Great pity 'twould be were it otherwise. I 
hope you will amble it away for many a year, 
and " witch thi world with your horseman- 
ship." 

I know there are a good many lively songs 

of merit that I have not put down in the list 

(tent you ; but I have them all in my eye. My 

Patie is a lover gay, though a little unequal, is 

natu-al an J very pleasing song, and I humbly 



think we ought not to displace or alter it, ex 
cept the last stanaa.* 



No. XXI. 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

April, 1793. 

1 HAVE yours, my dear Sir, this moment. I 
shall answer it and your former letter, in my 
desultory way of saying whatever comes upper- 
most. 

The business of many of our tunes wanting 
at the beginning what fiddlers call a starting- 
note, is often a rub to us poor rhymers. 

" There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
That wander thro' the blooming heather," 

You may alter to 

" Braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes. 
Ye wander," &e. 

My song. Here awa, there awa, as amended 
by Mr. Erskine, 1 entirely approve of, and re- 
turn you. 

Give me leave to criticise your taste in the 
only thing in which it is in my opinion repre 
hensible. You know I ought to know some- 
thing of my own trade. Of pathos, sentiment, 
and point, you are a complete judge ; but there 
is a quality more necessary than either, in a 
song, and which is the very essence of a ballad, 
I mean simplicity : now, if I mistake not, this 
last feature you are a little apt to sacrifice to 
the foregoing. 

Ramsay, as every other poet, nas not been 
always equally happy in his pieces : stiU I can- 
not approve of taking such liberties with an 
author as Mr. W. proposes doing with The last 
time 1 came o'er the Moor. Let a poet, if he 
chooses, take up the idea of another, and work 
it into a piece of his own ; but to mangle the 
works of the poor bard, whose tuneful tongue 
is now mute for ever, in the dark and narrow 
house — by Heaven 'twould be sacrilege ! I 
grant that Mr. W's version is an improvement ; 
but I know Mr. W. well, and esteem him much ; 
let him mend the song, as the Highlander 
mended his gun : — he gave it a new stock, and 
a new lock, and a new barrel. 

I do not, by this, object to leaving out im- 
proper stanzas, where that can be done without 
spoiling the whole. One stanza in The lass 
o' Patie^s mill, must be left out: the song will 
be nothing worse for it. I am not sure if we 



* The originai letter from Mr. Thomson contains 
many observations on the Scottish songs, and on the 
manner of adapting the >^ ords to th' mu>;ic, which, at 
his desire, are suppressed. The subsequent letter of 
Mr. Burns refers to several of ihest observations. 



BURNS' WOUKS. 



san take the same liberty with Corn rigs are 
ionnie. Perhaps it might want the last staaza, 
and be the bette- for it. Cauld kail in Aber- 
deen, you must leave with me yet a while. I 
have vowed to have a song to that air, on the 
lady whom I attempted to celebrate in the 
verses, Poortith cauld and restless love. At 
any rate,*my other song, Green grow the rash- 
es, will never suit. That song is current in 
Scotland under the old title., ai.d to the merry 
old tune of that name ; which of course would 
mar the progress of your song to celebrity. 
Your book will be the standard of Scots songs 
for the future : let this idea ever keep your 
judgment on the alarm. 

I send a song, on a celebrated toast in this 
country, to suit Bonnie Dundee. I send you 
also a ballad to the Milly mill O. 

The last time I came o'er the moor, I would 
fain attempt to make a Scots song for, and let 
Ramsay's be the English set. You shall hear 
from me soon. Wl^rn you go to London on 
this business, can \ uu come by Dumfries ? I 
have still several MS. Scots airs by me which 
I have picked up, mostly from the singing of 
country lasses. They please ine vastly ; but 
your learned lugs would perlui|js be displeased 
with the very feature for which 1 like them. 
I call them simple ; you would pronounce them 
silly. Do you know a fine air called Jackie 
Hume's lament ? I have a song of consider- 
able merit to that air. I'll enclose you both the 
song and tune, as I had them ready to send to 
Johnson's Museum. I send you likewise, to 
me, a beautiful little air, which I had taken 
down from viva voce. 

Adieu ! 



No. XXII. 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

Mr DEAR SIR, April, 1793. 

I HAD scarcely put my last letter into the 
post-office, when I took up the subject of The 
last time I came o^er the moor, and ere I slept 
drew the outlines of the foregoing. How far I 
have succeeded, I leave on this, as on every 
other occasion, to you to decide. I own my 
vanity is flattered, when you give my songs a 
place in your elegant and superb work ; but to 
be of service to the work is my first wish. As 
I have often told you, I do not in a single in- 
stance wish you, out of compliment to me, to 
insert any thing of mine. One hint let me give 
you — whatever Mr. Pleyel does, let him not al- 
.er one iota of the original Scottish airs ; I mean, 
in the song department ; but let our national 
music preserve its native features. They are, 

own, frequently wild and irreducible to the 
more modern rules ; but on that very eccentri- 
city, perhaps, depends a great part of their ef 
feot 



No. XXIII. 

MR. THOMSON TO THE POET 

Edinburgh, 26th April, 179i«. 
I HEARTILY thank you, my dear Sir, for youi 
last two letters, and the songs which accoi*,,7a- 
nied them. I am always both instructed ia. 
entertained by your observations ; and the frank 
ness with which you speak out your mind, is t: 
me highly agreeable. It is very possible I maj 
not have the true idea of simplicity in composi 
tion. I confess there are several songs of Allan 
Ramsay's, for example, that I think silly enough 
which another person, more conversant than . 
have been with country people, would perhaps 
call simple and natural. But the lowest scenes 
of simple nature will not please generally, if co- 
pied precisely as they are. The poet, like the 
painter, must select what will form an agreeable 
as well as a natural picture. On this subject it 
were easy to enlarge ; but at present suffice it 
to say, that I consider simplicity, rightly under- 
stood, as a most essential quality in composition, 
and the ground-work of beauty in all the arts. 
I will gladly appropriate your most interesting 
new ballad, When wild ward's deadly blast, &c. 
to the Mill, mill, O, as well as the two other 
songs to their respective airs ; but the third and 
fourth line of the first verse must undergo some 
little alteration in order to suit the music. Pleyel 
does not alter a single ncste of the songs. That 
would be absurd indeed ! With the airs which 
he introduces into the sonatas, I allow him to 
take such liberties as he pleases ; but that has 
nothing to do with the songs. 



P. S. — I wish you would do as you proposed 
with your Rigs o' barley. If the loose senti- 
ments are thrashed out of -it, I will find an ak 
for it ; but as to this there is no hurry. 



No. XXIV. 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

June, 1793. 

When I tell you, my dear Sir, that a friend 
of mine, in whom I am much interested, has 
fallen a sacrifice to these accursed times, you 
will easily allow that it might unhinge me for 
doing any good among baLads. My own loss, 
as to pecuniary matters, is trifling ; but the to- 
tal ruin of a much-loved friend, is a loss indeed. 
Pardon my seeming inattention to your last 
commands. 

I cannot alter the disputed lines in the Mill, 
mill, O. What you think a defect I esteem aa 
a positive beauty : so you see how doctors dif- 
fer. I shall now, with as much alacrity as J 
can iruster, go on with your ^^ommands. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



You know Fraser, the hautboy player in 
Edinburgh — he is here instructing a band of 
music for a fencible corps quartered in this 
country. Among many of his airs that please 
me, there is one well known as a reel by the 
name of The Quaker's Wife / and which I re- 
member a grand aunt of mine used to sing, by 
the name of Liggeram cosh, my bonny wee lass. 
Mr. Fraser plays it slow, and with an expres- 
sion that quite charms me. I became such an 
enthusiast about Jt, that I made a song for it, 
which I here subjoin ; and enclose Fraser's set 
of the tune. If they hit your fanoy, they are 
at your service ; if not, return me the tune, 
and I will put it in Johnson's Museum. I 
t'unk the song is not in my worst manner. 

(Slythe hae I been on yon Hill, p, 193.) 

I ehould wish to hear how this pleases you. 



No. XXV. 



THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

25th June, 1793. 
Have you ever, my dear Sir, felt your bo- 
som ready to burst with indignation on reading 
.^r those mighty villains who divide kingdom 
against kingdom, desolate provinces, and lay na- 
tions waste out of the wantonness of ambition, 
or often from still more ignoble passions ? In a 
mood of this kind to-day, I recollected the air 
of Logan water ; and it occurred to me that 
its querulous melody probably had its origin 
from the plaintive indignation of some swelling, 
suffering heart, fired at the tyrannic strides of 
some public destroyer ; and overwhelmed with 
private distress, the consequence of a country's 
ruin. If I have done any thing at all like ju-s- 
tice to my feelings, the following song, com- 
posed in three quarters of an hour's meditation 
in my elbow chair, ought to have some merit. 

{Logan Braes, p. 209.) 

Do you know the following beautiful little 
fragment in Witherspoon's Collection of Scots 
Songs ? 

Tune~-'* Hughie Graham." 

" O gin my love were yon red rose 
" That grows upon the castle wa', 

" And I mysel' a drap o* dew, 
" Into her bonnie breast to fa* ! 



" Oh, there beyond expression blest, 
*• I'd feast on beauty a' the night ; 

•^ Seal'd on her sllk-saft faulds to rest, 
*♦ Till flev'd awa by Puuibus' -^ght." 



This thought is inexpressibly bca. tiful ; and 
quite, so far as I know, original. It is too 
short for a song, else I would forswear you al- 
together, unless you gave it a place. I have 
often tried to eke a stanza to it, but in vain. 
After balancing myself for a musing five mi- 
nutes on the hind-legs of my elbow chair, I 
produced the following. 

The verses are far inferior to the foregoing, 
I frankly confess ; but if worthy of insertion at 
all, they might be first in place ; as every poet, 
who knows any thing of his trade, will husband 
his best thoughts for a concluding stroke. 

O were my love yon lilac fair, 

Wi' purple blossoms to the spring j 

And I a bird to shelter there. 

When wearied on my little wing : 

How I wad mourn, when it was torn 
By autumn wild, and winter rude ! 

But I wad sing on wanton wing. 

When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd. 



No. XXVI. 

MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

Monday, \st July, 1793 
I AM extremely sorry, my good Sir, that any 
thing should happen to unhinge you. The timet 
are terribly cut of tune, and when harmony will 
be restored, heaven knows. 

The first book of songs, just published, will 
be despatched to you along with this. Let me 
be favoured with your opinion of it frankly and 
freely. 

I shall certainly give a place to the song you 
have written for the Quaker's wife : it is qui'e 
enchanting. Pray, will you return the list of 
songs, with such airs added to it as you think 
ought to be included. The business now rests 
entirely on myself, the gentleman who original- 
ly agreed to join the speculation having re- 
quested to be off. No matter ; a loser 1 cannot 
be. The superior excellence of the work will 
create a general demand for it, as soon as it is 
properly known. And were the sale even slowe 
than it promises to be, I should be some- 
what compensated for my labour, by the plea- 
sure I shall receive from the music. I cannot 
express how much I am obliged to you for the 
exquisite new songs you are sending me ; but 
thanks, my friend, are a poor return for what 
you have done : as I shall be benefited by the 
publication, you must sufiFer me to enclose a 
small mark of my gratitude*, and to repeat it 
afterwards when I find it convenient. Do not 
return it, for, by heaven, if you do, our corres- 
pondence is at an end : and though this would 
be no loss to you, it would mar the publication, 



402 



BURNS' WORKS. 



which, under your auspices, cannot fail to be re- 
spectable and interesting. 



Wednesday Morning. 
I thank yoa for your delicate additional ver- 
ses to the old fragment, and for your excellent 
song to Logan water : Thomson's truly elegant 
one will follow for the English singer. Your 
apostrophe to statesmen is admirable, but I am 
not sure if it is quite suitable to the supposed 
gentle character of the fair mourner who speaks 
it. 



No. XXVII. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

MY DEAR SIR, July 2, 1793. 

I HAVE just finished the following ballad, and 
as I do think it in my best style, I send it you. 
Mr. Clarke, who wrote down the air from Mrs. 
Burns' wood-note wild, is very fcmd of it ; and 
has given it a celebrity by teaching it to some 
young ladies of the first fashion here. If you 
do not like the air enough to give it a place in 
your collection, please return it. The song you 
may keep, as I remember it. 



{Bonnie Jean, p. 194.) 

I have some thoughts of inserting in your in- 
dex, or in my notes, the names of the fair ones, 
the themes of my songs. I do not mean the 
name at full ; but dashes or asterisms, so as in- 
genuity may find them out. 

The heroine of the foregoing is Miss M. 
daughter to Mr. M. of D., one of your subscri- 
bers. I have not painted her in the rank which 
she holds in life, but in the dress and character 
of a cottager. 



No. XXVIII. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

Julyy 1793. 
I ASSURE you, my dear Sir, that you truly 
hurt me with your pecuniary parcel. It de- 
grades me in my own eyes. However, to return 
it would savour of affectation ; but as to any 
more traffic of that debtor and creditor kind, I 
swear by that Honour which crowns the up- 
right statue of Robert Burns' Integrity — 
on the least motion of it, I will indignantly spurn 
the by-past transaction, and from that moment 
commence entire stranger to you ! Buk>s' cha- 
racter for generosity of *»ntiment and indej)en- 



denne of mind will, I trust, long outlive any of 
his wants, which the cold unfeeling ore cau 
supply : at least, T wdl take care that such a 
character he shall deserve. 

Thank you for my copy of your publication. 
Never did my eyes behold, in any musical work, 
such elegance and correctness. Your preface, 
too, is admirably written ; only, your partiality 
to me has made you say too much ; however, it 
will bind me down to double every effort in the 
future progress of the work. -The following are 
a few remarks on the songs in the list you sent 
me. I never copy what I write to you, so I 
may be often tautological, or perhaps contradic- 
tory. 

The flowers of the forest is charming as a 
poem ; and should be, and must be, set to the 
notes ; but, though out of your rule, the three 
stanzas, beginning, 

" I hae seen the smiling o' fortune beguiling," 

are worthy of a place, were it but to immorta- 
lize the author of them, who is an old lady of 
my acquaintance, and at this moment living in 
Edinburgh. She is a Mrs. Cockburn : I for- 
get (if what place ; but from Roxburghshire. 
What a charming apostrophe is 

" O fickle fortune, why this cruel sporting. 
Why, why torment us — poor sons of a day /" 

The old ballad, I wish I were where Helen liesy 
is silly, to contemptibility*. My alteration of it, 
in Johnson's, is not much better. Mr. Pinker- 
ton, in his, what he calls, Ancient Ballads 
(many of them notorious, though beautiful 
enough forgeries) has the best set. It is full of 
his own interpolations — but no matter. 

In my next, I will suggest to your considera- 
tion, a few songs which may have escaped your 
hurried notice. In the meantime, allow me to 
congratulate you now, as a brother of the quill. 
You have committed your character and fame ; 
which will now be tried, for ages to come, by 
the illustrious jury of the Sons and Daughters 
of Taste — all whom poesy can please, or music 
charm. 

Being a bard of nature, I have some preten- 
sions to second sight ; and I am warranted by 
the spirit to foretel and affirm, that your great- 
grandchild will hold up your volumes, and say, 
with honest pride, " This so much admired se- 
lection was the work of my ancestor." 



* There is a copy of this ballad given in the account 
of the parish of Kivkpatrick-Fleming, (which contains 
the tomb of Fair Helen Irvine,) in the statistics of Sir 
John Sinclair, Vol. XIII. p. 275, to which this charac. 
ter is certainly no* applicable. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



403 



No. XXIX. 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, \st August, 1793. 

I HAD the pleasure of receiving your last two 
fetters, and am happy to find you are quite 
pleased with the appearance of the first book. 
When you come to hear the songs sung and ac- 
companied, you will be charmed with them. 

The bonnie brucket Lassie, certainly deserves 
better verses, and I hope you will match her. 
Cauld kail in Aberdeen, Let me in this ae night, 
and several of the livelier airs, wait the muse's 
leisure : these are peculiarly worthy of her 
choice gifts : besides, you'll notice that in airs 
of this sort, the singer can alivays do gieater 
justice to the poet, than in the slower airs of 
The Sush aboon Traquair, Lord Gregory, 
and the like ; for in the manner the latter are 
frequently sung, you must be contented with 
the sound, without the sense. Indeed both 
the airs and words ure disguised by the very 
slow, languid, psalm-singing style in which 
they are too often performed : they lose anima- 
tion and expression altogether, and instead of 
speaking to the mind, or touching the heart, 
they cloy upon the ear, and set us a yawn- 
ing! 

Your ballad, There was a lass and she was 
fair, is simple and beautiful, and shall undoubt- 
edly grace my collection. 



No. XXX. 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

MY DEAR THOMSON, AuOUSt, 1793. 

I HOLD the pen for our friend Clarke, who 
at present is studying the music of the spheres 
at my elbow. The Georgium Sidus he thinks 
IS rather out of tune ; so until he rectify that 
matter, he cannot stoop to terrestrial afi^airs. 

He sends you six of the Rondeau subjects, 
and if more are wanted, he says you shall have 
hem. 



Confound your long stairs ! 

S. CLARKE. 



No. XXXI. 

! THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

I August, 1793. 

Your objection, my dear sir, to the passages 
m my song of Logan Water, is right in one in- 
Mance ; but it is difficult to mend it : If I can, 



I will. The other passage you object to does 
not appear in the same light to me. 

I have tried my hand on Robin Adair, aud 
you will probably think, with little success; 
but it is such a cursed, cramp, out of the way 
measure, that I despair of doing any thing bet- 
ter to it. 



{Phillis the fair, p. 222.) 

So much for namby-pamby. I may, after 
all, try my hand on it in Scots verse. There I 
always find myself most at home. 

I have just put the last hand to tJie song I 
meant for Cavld Kail in Aberdeen. If it suits 
you to insert it, I shall be pleased, as the hero- 
ine is a favourite of mine : if not, I shall also 
be pleased ; because T wish, and will be glad, 
to see you act decidedly on the business. 'Tis 
a tribute as a man of taste, and as an editor, 
which you owe yourself. 



No. XXXII. 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

MY GOOD SIR, August, 1793. 

I CONSIDER it one of the most agreeable cir- 
cumstances attending this publication of mine, 
that it has procured me so many of your much 
valued epistles. Pray make my acknowledg- 
ments to St. Stephen for the tunes ; tell him I 
admit the justness of his complaint on my stair- 
case, conveyed in his laconic postscript to your 
jeu d'esprit ; which I perused more than once, 
without discovering exactly whether your discus- 
sion was music, astronomy, or politics ; though 
a sagacious friend, acquainted with the convivial 
habits of the poet and the musician, offered me 
a bet of two to one, you were just drowning 
care together ; that an empty bowl was the 
only thing that would deeply affect you, and the 
only matter you could then study how to re- 
medy ! 

I shall be glad to see you give Robin Adair 
a Scottish dress. Peter is furnishing him with 
an English suit for a change, and you are well 
matched together. Robin's air is excellent, 
though he certainly has an out of the way mea- 
sure as ever poor Parnassian wight was plagued 
with. I wish you would invoke the muse for a 
single elegant stanza to be substituted for the 
concluding objectionable verses of D<>wn the 
burn Davie, so that this most exquisite song 
may no longer be excluded from good company. 

Mr. Allan has made an inimitable drawing 
from your John Anderson my Jo, which I am 
to have engraved, as a frontispiece to the hu- 
morous class of songs ; you will be quite charm- 
ed with it, I promise you. The old couple are 
seated by the fireside. Mrs. Anderson, in great 



404 



BURNS' WORKS. 



good humour, is clapping John's shoulders, 
while he smiles and looks at her with such glee, 
as to show that he fully recollects the pleasant 
days and nights when they were first acquent. 
The drawing would do honour to the pencil of 
Teniers. 



No. XX XIII. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

Angvst, 1793. 
That crinkum-crankum tune, Robin Adair, 
^as run so in my head, and I succeeded so ill 
in my last attempt, that I have ventuied, in this 
morning's walk, one essay more. You, my 
dear Sir, will rememher an unfortunate part of 
our worthy friend C. 's story, which happened 
about three years ago. That struck my fancy, 
and I endeavoured to do the idea justice, as 
follows. 



(^Had la cave, p. 203.) 

By the way, I have met with a musical High- 
lander, in Breadalbane's fencibles, which are 
quartered here, who assures me that he well 
remembers his mother's singing Gaelic songs to 
both Robin Adair and Gramachree. They 
certainly have more of the Scotch than Irish 
taste in them. 

This man comes from the vicinity of Inver- 
ness ; so it could not be any intercourse with 
Ireland that could bring them ; — except, what 
I shrewdly suspect to be the case, the wander- 
ing minstrels, harpers, and pipers, used to go 
frequently errant through the wilds both of 
Scotland and Ireland, and so some favourite airs 
might be common to both. — A case in point — 
They have lately, in Ireland, published an Irish 
air, as they say, called Caun du delish. The 
fact is, in a publication of Corn's, a great while 
ago, you win find the same air, called a High- 
land one, with a Gaelic song set to it. Its 
name there, I think, is Oran Gaoil, and a 
fine air it is. Do ask honest Allan, or the Bev. 
Gaelic parson, about these matt&rs. 



No. XXXIV. 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

MV DEAR SIR, August, 1793. 

Let me in this ae night, I will recopsider. 
I am glaid you are pleased with roy song. Had 
I a cave, &c. as I liked it myself. 

I walked out yesterday evening with a vo- 
lume of the Museum in my hand ; vhen, turn- 
ing up Allan Water, " What nuni>)ers shall 



the muse repeat," &c %s the words appeared t« 
me rather unworthy of so fine an air ; and re- 
collecting that it is on your list, I sat and raved 
under the shade of an old thorn, till I wiote 
out one to suit the measure. I may be wrong : 
but I think it not in my worst style. You 
must know, that in Ramsay's Tea-table, where 
the modern song first appeared, the ancient 
name of the tune, Allan says, is Allan Watei, 
or. My love Annie's very bonnie. This 
last has certainly been a line of the origina. 
song ; so I took up the idea, and, as you w!^l 
see, have introduced the hne in its place, which 
I presume it formerly occupied ; though I like- 
wise give you a choosing line, if it should not 
hit the cut of your fancy. 

(By Allan streams X chanced to rove, 

While Phoabus sank beyond Benleddi, p. I9t' > 

Bravo ! say I ; it is a good song. Should 
you think so too, (not else) you can set the 
music to it, and let the ofher follow as En^lisu 
verses. 

Autumn is my propitious season. I make 
more verses in it than in all the year else. 
God bless you ! 



No. XXXV. 

THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

August, 1793. 
Is Whistle and I'll come to you, my larf, 
one of your airs ? I admire it much ; and yes- 
terday 1 set the following verses to it. Urbani, 
whom I met with here, begged them of me, as 
he admires the air much ; but as I uuderstanJ 
that he looks with rather an evil eye on your 
work, I did not choose to comply. However, 
if th-e song does not suit your taste, I may pos- 
sibly send it him. The set of the air which 
I had in my eye, is in Johnson's Museum. 



( O whistle and Fll come to you, my lad, 
p. 242.) 

Another favourite air of mine is. The muckin 
o' Geordie's byre. When sung slow, with ex- 
pression, I have wished that it had had bett< •■ 
poetry : that I have endeavoured to supply, aa 
follows : — 

(Phillis the Fair, p. 222.) 

Mr. Clai-ke begs you to give Miss Phil lis a 
corner in your book, as she is a particular flan"*? 
of his. She is a Miss P. M., sister to bonme 
Jean. They are both pupils of his. You shall 
hear from me, the very first grist I get from 
my rhyming mill. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



4€5 



No. XXXVI. 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

August, 1793. 
That tune, Cuuld Kail, is such a favourite 
of yours, that I once more roved out yesterday 
for a gloamin-shot at the muses;* when the 
muse that presides o*er the shores of Nith, or 
rather my old inspiring dearest nymph Coila, 
whispered me the following. I have two rea- 
sons for thinking that it was my early, sweet, 
simple inspirer that was by my elbow, " smooth 
gliding without step," and pouring the song on 
my glowing fancy. In the first place, since I 
left Coila's native haunts, not a fragment of a 
poet has arisen to cheer her solitary musings, by 
catching inspiration from her ; so I more than 
suspect that she has followed me hither, or at 
least makes me occasional visits ; secondly, the 
last stanza of this song I send you in the very 
words that Coila taught me many years ago, 
and which I set to an old Scots reel in John- 
son's Museum. 

( Come let me take thee to my breast, p. 197.) 

If you think the above will suit your idea of 
your favourite air, I shall be highly pleased. 
The last time I came o'er the Moor, I cannot 
meddle with,- as to mending it : and the musi- 
cal world have been so long accustomed to Ram- 
say's words, that a different song, though posi- 
tively superior, would not be so well received. 
I aa not fond of choruses to songs, so I have 
Qo* jeade one for the foregoing. 



No. XXXVII. 



THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
(^Dainty Davie, p. 1 98. ) 

August, 1793. 

So much for Davie. The chorus, you know, 
is to the low part of the tun^;. See Clarke's 
Bet of it in the Museum. 

N. B. In the Museum they have drawled out 
the tune to twelve lines of poetry, which is 
nonsense. Four lines of song, and four 



of chorus, is the way. 



* Gloaming-twilight, properly from glooming. A 
beautiful poetical word which ought to be adopted in 
England. ^ gloamin-shot, a twilight interview. 



No. XXX VHL 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

MY DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, '[st Sept. 1793. 

Since writing you last, I have received hali 
a dozen songs, with which 1 am delighted beyond 
expression. The humour and fancy of Whistle 
and Pll come to you, my lad, will render it 
nearly as great a favourite as Duncan Gray. 
Come let vie take thee to my breast, Adown 
winding With, and JBy Allan stream, 8fc. are 
full of imagination and feeling, and sweetly suit 
the airs for which they are intended. Had 1 
a cave on some wild distant shore, is a strik- 
ing and aflfecting composition. Our friend, to 
whose story it refers, read it with a swelling 
heart, I assure you. The union we are now 
forming, 1 think, can never be bioken ; these 
songs of yours will descend with the music to 
the latest posterity, aud will be fondly cherished 
so long as genius, taste, and sensibility exist in 
our island. 

While the muse seems so propitious, I think 
it right to enclose a list of all the favours I have 
to ask of her, no fewer than twenty and three ! 
I have burdened the pleasant Peter with as many 
as it is probable he will attend to : most of the 
remaining airs would puzzle the English poet 
not a little ; they are of that peculiar measure 
and rhythm, that they must be familiar to him 
who writes for them. 



No. XXXIX. 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

Sept. 1793. 

You may readily trust, my dear Sir, that any 
exertion in my power is heartily at your ser- 
vice. But one thing I must hint to you ; the 
very name of Peter Pindar is of great service 
to your publication, so get a verse from him 
now and then ; though I have no objection, as 
well as I can, to bear the burden of the busi- 
ness. 

You know that my pretensions to musical 
taste are merely a few of nature's instincts, un- 
taught and untutored by art. For this reason, 
many musical compositions, particularly where 
much of the merit lies in counterpoint ; how- 
ever they may transport and ravish the ears of 
you connisseurs, affect my simple lug no other- 
wise than merely as melodious din. On the 
other hand, by way of amends, I am delighted 
with many little melodies, which the learned 
musician despises as silly and insipid. I do not 
know whether the old air Hey tuttie taitie 
may rank among this number ; but well I know 
that, with Eraser's hautboy, it has often filled 
my eyes with tears. There is a tradition, which 
I have met with in many places of Scotland, 
that it was Robert Bruce's march at the battle 



406 



BURNS' WORKS. 



of Bannockburn. This thought, in my solitary 
wanderings, warmed me to a pitch )f enthu- 
siasm on the theme of Liberty and Indepen- 
dence, which I threw into a kind of Scottish 
ode, fitted to the air that one might suppose to 
be the gallant Royal Scot's address to his he- 
roic followers on that eventful mornius. 



(^ Scots wha hue wV Wallace bled, p. 195.) 

So may God ever defend the cause of Truth 
and Liberty, as he did that day ! — Amen. 

P. S. — I showed the air to Urbani, who was 
highly pleased with it, and begged me to make 
soft verses for it ; but I had no idea of giving 
myself any trouble on the subject, till the acci- 
dental recollection of that glorious struggle for 
freedom, associated with the glowing ideas of 
some other struggles of the same nature, not 
quite so ancient, roused my rhyming mania. 
Clarke's set of the tune, with his bass, you will 
find in the Museum ; though I am afraid that 
the air is not what will entitle it to a place in 
your elegant selectioa 



No. XL. 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

Sept. 179S. 

I DARE gay, my dear Sir, that you will begin 
to think my correspondence is persecution. No 
matter, I can't help it ; a ballad is my hobby- 
horse ; which, though otherwise a simple sort 
of harmless, idiotical beast enough, has yet this 
blessed headstrong property, that when once it 
has fairly made off with a hapless wight, it gets 
80 enamoured with the tinkle-gingle, tinkle- 
gingle of its own bells, that it is sure to run 
poor pilgarlick, the bedlam jockey, quite be- 
yond any useful point or post in the common 
race of man. 

The following song I have composed for 
Oran-gaoil, the HighLind air that, you tell me 
in your last, you have resolved to give a place 
to in your book. I have this moment finished 
the song ; so you have it glowing from the mint. 
If it suit you, well ! if not, 'tia also well ! 



Behold the hour the boat arrives, p. 193.) 



No. XLI. 

MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

Edinburgh, 5th Sept. 1 793. 
I BXLIETK it is generally allowed that the^ 



greatest modesty is the sure attendant of tht 
greatest merit. While you are sending me verses 
that even Shakspeare might be proud to own 
you speak of them as if they were ordinary pro- 
ductions ! Your heroic ode is to me the noblest 
composition of the kind in the Scottish lan- 
guage. I happened to dine yesterday with a 
party of your friends, to whom I read it. They 
were all charmed with it, entreated me to find 
out a suitable air for it, and reprobated the idea 
of giving it a tune so totally devoid of interest 
or grandeur as Hei/ tuttie taitie. Assuredly 
your partiality for this tune must arise from the 
ideas associated in your mind by the tradition 
concerning it, for I never heard any person,— 
and I have conversed again and again with the 
greatest enthusiasts for Scottish airs, — I say I 
never heard any one speak of it as worthy of 
notice. 

I have been running over the whole hundred 
airs, of which I lately sent you the list ; and I 
think Leicie Gordon is most happily adapted 
to your ode ; at least with a very slight varia- 
tion of the fourth line, which I shall presently 
submit to you. There is in Lewie Gordon 
more of the grand than tlie plaintive, particu- 
larly when it is sung with a degree of spirit, 
which your words would oblige the singer to 
give it. I would have no scruple about substi- 
tuting your ode in the room of Lewie Gordon, 
which has neither the interest, the grandeur, 
nor the poetry that characterise your verses. 
Now, the variation I have to suggest upon the 
last line of each verse, the only line too short 
for the air, is as follows : — 

Verse \st. Or to glorious victorie. 

2d, Chains — chains and slaverie. 
Sd, Let him, let him turn and flie. 
A^th, Let him bravely follow me. 
bth, But they shall, they shall be free. 
6^/j, Let us, let us do, or die ! 

If you connect each line with its own verse, I 
do n;;t think you will find that either the senti- 
ment or the expression loses any of its energy. 
The only line which I dislike in the whole ol 
the song is, " Welcome to your gory bed.' 
Would not another word be preferable to wel- 
come 9 In your next I will expect to be in 
formed whether you agrcR to uhat 1 have pro- 
posed. These little alterations I submit with 
the greatest deference. 

The beauty of the verses you have made for 
Oran-gaoil will insure celebrity to the air. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



407 



No. XLII. 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 

I HAVE received your list, my dear Sir, and 
here go my observations on it.* 

Down the burn Davie. I have this mo- 
ment tried an alteration, leaving out the kst 
half of the third stanza, and the first Iialf of the 
last stanza, thus : — 

As down the burn they took their way, 

And thro' the flowery dale ; 
His cheek to hers he aft did lay, 

And love was aye the tale. 

With " Mary, when shall we return. 

Sic pleasure to renew ?" 
Quoth Mary, " Love, I like the burn, 

And aye shall follow you/'-j- 

Thro' the wood laddie — I am decidedly of 
opinion, that both in this, and There'll never be 
peace till Jamie comes hame, the second or high 
part of the tune being a repetition of the first 
part an octave higher, is only for instrumental 
music, and would be much better omitted in 
singing. 

Cowden-knowes. Remember in your index 
that the sonp in pure English to this tune, be- 
ginning 

** When summer comes, the swains on Tweed," 

IS the production of Crawford : Robert was his 
Christian name. 

Laddie lie near me, must lie by me for some 
time. I do not know the air ; and until I am 
complete master of a tune, in my own singing, 
(such as it is), I can never compose for it. 
My way is : I consider the poetic sentiment 
correspondent to my idea of the musical expres- 
sion ; then choose my theme ; begin one stan- 
ta ; when that is composed, which is generally 
the most difficult part of the business, I walk 
out, sit down, and then look out for objects in 
nature around me, that are in unison or har- 
mony with the cogitations of my fancy, and 
workings of my bosom ; humming every now 
and then the air, with the verses I have fra- 
med. When I feel my muse beginning to jade, 
I retire to the solitary fireside of my study, and 
there commit my effusions to paper ; swinging 
at intervals on the hind legs of my elbow-chair, 
by way of calling forth my own critical stric- 
tures, as my pen goes on. Seriously, this, at 
home, is almost invanably my way. 

What cursed egotism I 



* Mr. Thomson's list of songs for his publication. 
In his remarks, the bard proceeds in order, and goes 
tliTOugh the whole; but on many of them he merely 
signifies his approbation. All his remarks of any im- 
portance are presented to the reader. 

\ This alteration Mr. Thomson has adopted, (or at 
least intended to adopt), instead of the last stanza of 
the original song, which is objectionable in point of 
delicacy* 



Gill Morice I am for leaving out. t is s 
plaguey length ; the air itself is never sung ; 
and its place can well be supplied by one or two 
songs for fine airs that are not in your list. For 
instance, Craigieburn-wood and Roy's Wife 
The first, beside its intrinsic merit, has novelty ; 
and the last has high merit, as well as great ce- 
lebrity. I have the original words of a song 
for the last air, in the hand-writing of the iady 
who composed it ; and they are superior to any 
edition of the song whicA the public has yet 
seen. 

Highland Laddie. The old set will please a 
mere Scotch ear best ; and the new an Ital- 
ianized one. There is a third, and what Os- 
wald calls the old Highland Laddie, which 
pleases me more than either of them. It is 
sometimes called Ginglan Johnnie ; it being 
the air of an old humorous tawdry song of that 
name. You will find it in the Museum, / hae 
been at Crookie-den, &c. I would advise you, 
in this musical quandary, to offer up your pray- 
ers to the muses for inspiring direction ; and in 
the meantime, waiting for this direction, bestow 
a libation to Bacchus ; and there is not a doubt 
but you will hit on a judicious choice. Pro- 
batum est. 

Aidd Sir Simon, I must beg you to leave 
out, and put in its place, The Quaker's wife. 

JBhjthe hae I been o'er the hill, is one of the 
finest songs ever I made in my life ; and besides, 
is composed on a young lady, positively the 
most beautiful, lovely woman in the world. As 
I purpose giving you the names and designa- 
tions of all my heroines, to appear in some fu- 
ture edition of your work, perhaps half a cen- 
tury hence, you must certainly include the bon- 
niest lass in a' the ivarld in your collection. 

Daintie Davie, I have heard *ung, nineteen 
thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine times, 
and always with the chorus to the low part of 
the tune ; and nothing has surprised me so much 
as your opinion on this subject. If it will not 
suit, as I proposed, we will lay two of the stan- 
zas together, and then make the chorus follow. 

Fee him father — I enclose you Eraser's set 
of this tune when he plays it slow ; in fact. 
he makes it the language of despaiy. I shall 
here give you two stanzas in that style ; merely 
to try if it will be any improvement. Were it 
possible, in singing, to give it half the pathos 
which Fraser gives it in playing, it would make 
an admirable pathetic song, I do not give these 
verses for any merit they have. I composed 
them at the time in which Patie Allan s mi- 
ther died, that was about the back o' midnight; 
and by the leeside of a bowl of punch, which 
had overset every mortal in company, except 
the hautbois and the muse. 



{ Thou hast left me ever Jamie, p. 239.) 

Jockie and Jenny I would discard, and in 
its place would put There's nae luck about 



408 

the house, wciich has a very pleasant air ; and 
which is positively the finest love-ballad in that 
style in the Scottiish, or perhaps in any other 
language. When she cam ben she bobhet, as an 
air, is more beautiful than either, and iu the an- 
dante way, would unite with a charming senti- 
mental ballad. 

Saw ye my father, is one of my greatest fa- 
vourites. The evening before last, 1 wandered 
out, aud began a tender song ; in what I think 
is its native style. I must premise, that the 
old way, and the way to give most effect, is to 
nave no starting note, as the fiddlers call it, 
but to \>urst at once into the pathos. Every 
country girl sings — Saw ye my father, §*c. 

Rly song is but just begun j and I should 
like, before I proceed, to know your opinion of 
it. I have sprinkled it with the Scottish dia- 
ect, but it may be easily turned into correct 
vinglish.— (p. 242.) 



Todlin hame. Urban! mentioned an idea 
of his, which has long been mine ; that this air 
is highly suscej.'tible of pathos ; accordingly, 
you will soon hear him, at your concert, try it 
to a song of mine in the Museum, Ye banks 

and braes o' bnnnie Doon One song more 

and I have done : yluld In ng syne. The air 
is but mediocre ; but the following song, the 
old song of the olden times, and which has 
never been in print, nor even in manuscript, un- 
til I took it down from an oi(* man's singing, is 
enough to recommend any air. 



( Auld lang syne, p. 191.) 

Now, I suppose I have tired your patience 
fati'y. You must, after all is over, have a num- 
ber of ballads, properly so called. Gill Moricc, 
Tranent Muir, M'-Phersons Farewell, Bat- 
tle nf Sheriff -muir, or We ran and they ran, 
( 1 know the author of this charming ballad, 
and his history), Hardyknute, Barbara jiUan, 
(I can furnish a finer set of tliis tune than 
any thing that has yet appeared) ; and besides, 
do you know that I really have the old tune to 
which The Cherry and the Slae was sung ; 
and which is mentioned as a well known air in 
Scotlaiid's Complaint, a book published before 
poor Mary's days. It was then called The 
bunks o' Helicon ; an old poem which Pinker- 
ton has brought to light. You will see all this 
in Tytler's History of Scottish Music. The 
tune, to a learned ear, may have no great merit ; 
but it is a great curiosity. I have a good many 
origLial things of this kind. 



No. XLfll. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON 

September, 179S. 
I AM happy, my dear sir, that my ode pleasej 
you so much. Your idea, *' honour's bed," is, 
though a beautiful, a hackneyed idea ; so, if you 
please, we will let the line stand as it is. I 
have altered the song as follows : — 

(JBannock-burn, p. 195.) 

N. B. — I have borrowed the last stanza from 
the common stall edition of Wallace. 

" A false usurper sinks in every foe, 
And liberty returns with every blow." 

A couplet woi thy of Homer. Yesterday you 
had enough of my correspondence. The post 
goes, and my head aches miserably. One com- 
fort ; I suffer so much, just now, in this world, 
for last night'sjoviality, that I shall escape scot- 
free for it in the world to come. Amen ! 



No. XLIV. 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

\2th September, 1793. 

A THOUSAND thanks to you, my dear Sir, for 
your observations on the list of my songs. I 
am happy to find your ideas so much in unison 
with my own respecting the generality of the 
airs, as well as the verses. About some of them 
we differ, but there is no disputing about hobby 
hoises. I shall not fail to profit by the remarks 
you make ; and to re-consider the whole with 
attention. 

Dnintie Davie must be sung, two stanzas 
together, and then the chorus — 'tis the proper 
way. I agree with you, that there may be 
something of pathos, or tenderness at least, in 
the air of Fee him, father, when performed 
with feeling ; but a tender cast may be given 
almost to any lively air, if you sing it very slow- 
ly, expressively, and with serious words. I am, 
however, clearly and invariably for retaining the 
cheerful tunes joined to their own humorou-s 
verses, wherever the verses aie passable. But 
the sweet song for Fee him, father, which you 
began about the back of midnight, I will pub- 
lish as an additional one. Mr. James Balfour, 
the king of good fellows, and the best singer 
of the lively Scottish ballads that ever existed, 
has charmed thousands of companies with Fee 
him, father, and with Todlin hame also, to the 
old words, which never should be disunited from 
eifhiT of these airs. Some Bacchanals I would 
wish to discard. Fy let us a' to the bridal, for 
instance, is so coarse and vulgar, that I think it 
fit only tr be sung in a company of drunken col 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



tiers ; and Saw ye my father appears to me 
both indelicate and silly. 

One word more with regard to your heroic 
ode. I think, with great deference to the poet, 
that a prudent general would avoid saying any 
thing to his soldiers which might tend to make 
death more frightful than it is. Gory presents a 
disagreeable image to the mind ; and to tell them, 
" Welcome to your gory bed," seems rather a 
discouraging address, notwithstanding the alter- 
native which follows. I have shown the song 
to three friends of excellent taste, and each of 
them objected to this line, which emboldens me 
to use the freedom of bringing it again under your 
notice. I would suggest, 

** Now prepare for honour's bed, 
Or for glorious victorie." 



No. XLV. 
THE POET TO MR. THOai.SON. 

September, 1793. 

** Who shall decide when doctors disagree ?" 
My ode pleases me so much that I cannot alter 
it. Your proposed alterations would, in my o- 
pinion, make it tame. I am exceedingly oblig- 
ed to you for putting me on re-considering it ; 
as I think I have much improved it. Instead 
of " sodger ! hero !" I will have it " Caledo- 
nian ! on vvi' me !" 

I have scrutinized it over and over ; and to 
»he world some way or other it shall go as it is. 
At the same time it will not in the least hurt 
me should you leave it out altogether and adhere 
to your first intention of adopting Logan's verses. • 

I have finished my song to Saw ye my fa- 
ther ; and in English, as you will see. That 
there is a syllable too much for the expression of 
the air, is true ; but allow me to say, that the 
mere dividing of a dotted crotchet into a crot- 
chet and a quaver, is not a great matter : how- 
ever, in that I have no pretensions to cope in 
judgment with you. Of the poetry I speak with 
confidence ; but the music is a business where T 
hint my ideas with the utmost diffidence. 

The old verses have merit, though unequal, 
and are popular ; my advice is to set the air to 
the old words, and let mine follow as English 
verses. Here they ar** — 



* Mr. i homson has very properly adopted this song 
(if it may be so called) as the bard presented it to him. 
He has attached it to the air of Lewie Gordon, and per- 
haps among tlie existing airs he could not find a better ; 
but the poetry is suited to a much liigher strain of mu- 
Bic, and may employ the genius of some Scottish Han- 
del, if any such should in future arise. The reader 
will have observed, that Burns adopted the alterations 
proposed by his friend and correspondent in former in- 
stances with great readiness ; perhaps, indeed, on all 
indifferent occasions. In the present instance, however, 
he rejected theiri, though repeatedly urged, with deter- 
mined resolution. y 



( Where are the joys I hae met in the morning 
p. 242.) 

Adieu, my dear Sir ! The post goes, so I shall 
defer some other remarks until mon leisur*". 



No. XL VI. 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

September, 1793. 

I HAVE been turning over some volumes of 
songs, to find verses whose measures would suit 
the airs for which you have allotted me to find 
English songs. 

For Muirland Willie, you have, in Ramsay's 
Tea-table, an excellent song, beginning " Ah, 
why those tears in Nelly's eyes?" ^s for The 
Collier's Dochter, take the following oW Bac- 
chanal. 



{Deluded Swain, p. 198.) 

The faulty line in Logan- water, I mend thus : 

" How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry ?** 

The song, otherwise, will pass. As to ]}£'- 
Gregoira-Rua-Ruth, you will see a song of 
mine to it, with a set of the air superior to yours, 
in the Museum, Vol. ii. p. 181. The song be- 
gins, 

" Raving winds around her blowing." 

Your Lish airs are prettv but they are down- 
right Irish. If they were like the Ranks of 
Ranna, for instance, though really Irish, yet in 
the Scottish taste, you might adopt them. Since 
you are so fond of Irish music, what say you to 
twenty-five of them in an additional number? 
We could easily find this quantity of charming 
airs ; I will take care that you shall not want 
songs ; and I assure you that you will find it 
the most saleable of the whole. If you do not 
approve of Roy's tvife, for the music's sake, we 
shall not insert it. Deil tak' the wars, is a 
charming song ; so is, Saw ye my Peggy 9 
There's nae luck about the house, well deserves 
a place ; I cannot say that O'er the hills and 
far awa strikes me as equal to your selection. 
This is no my ain house is a great favourite air 
of mine ; and if you send me your set of it, I 
will task my muse to her highest effort. What 
is your opinion oi I hae laid a herrin in sawt? 
I like it much. Your Jacobite airs are pretty ; 
and there are many others of the same kind, 
pretty — but you have not room for them. You 
cannot, 1 think, insert, Fy let us a' to the bridle, 
to any other words than its own. 



110 



BURNS' WORKS. 



What pleases me, as simple and naive, dis- 
rusts you as ludicrous and low. For this reason, 
Fye, gie me my coggie^ sirs — Fye, let us a' to 
the bridal, with several others of that cast, are, 
to me, highly pleai^ing ; while, Saw ye my father, 
< r saw ye my Muiher, delights me with its dis- 
crlptive simple pathos. Thus, my song, Ken 
ye what Meg o' the mill has gotten ? pleases 
myself so much, that I cannot try my hand at 
another song to the air ; so I shall not attempt 
it. I know you will laugh at all this ; but, 
*' ilka man wears his belt his ain gait." 



No. XL VII. 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

October, 1793. 

Your last letter, my dear Thomson, was in- 
deed laden with heavy news. Alas, poor Ers- 
kine ! * The recollection that he was a coadju- 
tor in your publication, has, till now, scared me 
from writing to you, or turning my thoughts on 
composing for you. 

I am pleased that you are reconciled to the 
air of the Quaker s Wife, though, by the bye, 
an old Highland gentleman, and a deep antiqua- 
rian, tells me it is a Gaelic air, and known by 
the name of Leiger 'm choss. The following 
verses I hope will please you, as an English song 
to the air : 

Thine am I, my faithful fair, 

Thine, my lovely Nancy, (p, 214.) 

The rest of your letter I shall answer at some 
other opportunity. 



No. XL VIII. 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

iiY GOOD SIR, 7th November, 1793. 

After bo long a silence, it gives me peculiar 
pleasure to recognize your well known hand, 
for I had begun to be apprehensive that all was 
not well with you. I am happy to find however, 
that your silence did not proceed from that cause, 
and that you have got among the ballads once 
more. 

I have to thank you for your English song to 
Leiger *m choss, which I think extremly good, 
although the colouring is warm. Your friend 
Mr. TurnbuU's songs have doubtless consider- 
able merit ; and as you have the command of 



• The Honourable A. Erskine, brother to Lord Kel. 
ly, whose nelancholv death Mr Thomson had commu- 
nicateil i> an excellont letter, which he has suppressed. 



his manuscripts, I hope you may find out soma 
that will answer as English songs to the airs yel 
unprovided. 



No. XLIX. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

December, 1793. 
Tell me how you like the following verse* 
to the tune of Jo Janet. 

( Husband, husband, cease your strife, p. 213.) 
( Wilt thou be my dearie ? p. 242.) 



NoL. 



MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

MY DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, 17th April, 1794. 

Owing to the distress of our friend for the 
loss of his child, at the time of his receiving 
your admirable but melancholy letter, 1 had 
not an opportunity 'till lately of perusing it. * 
How sorry am I to find Burns saying, " Canst 
thou not minister to a mind diseased ?" wb?'<^ 
he is delighting others from one end of the 
island to the other. Like the hypochondriac 
who went to consult a physician upon his case : 
Go, says the doctor, and see the famous Carlini, 
who keeps all Paris in good humour. Alas ! 
Sir, replied the patient, I am that unhappy 
Carlini ! 

Your plan for our meeting together pleases 
me greatly, and I trust that by some means or 
other it will soon take place ; but your Bac- 
chanalian challenge almost frightens me, for I 
am a miserable weak drinker ! 

Allan is much gratified by your good opinion 
of his talents. He has just begun a sketch 
from your Cotter's Saturday Night, and if it 
pleases himself in the design, he will probably 
etch or engrave it. In subjects of the pastoral 
or humorous kind, he is perhaps unrivalled by 
any artist living. He fails a little in giving 
beauty and grace to his females, and his colour- 
ing is sombre, otherwise his paintings and draw- 
ings would be in greater request.. 

I like the music of the Sutnrs Dochter, 
and will consider whether it shall be added to 
the last volume ; your verses to it are pretty ; 
but your humorous English song, to suit Jo 
Janet, is inimitable. What think you of the air, 
" Within a mile of Edinburgh ?" It has always 
struck me as a modern English imitation ; but 
is said to be Oswald's, and is so much liked, that 
I believe I must include it. The verses are lit- 



• A letter to Mr. Cunningham, 
in p. 379. 



to be lounc 



tie better than namby paniby. 
sider it worth a stanza or two ? 



CORRESPONDENCE. 

Do you con 



411 



N ). LI. 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

MY DEAR SIR, May, 1794. 

I RETURN you the plates, with which I am 
highly pleased ; I would humbly propose, in- 
stead of the younker knitting stockings, to put 
a stock and horn into his hands. A friend of 
mine, who is positively the ablest judge on the 
subject I have ever met with, and though an 
unknown, is yet a superior artist with the Su~ 
riu, is quite charmed with Allan's manner. I 
got him a peep of the Gentle Shepherd; and 
he pronounces Allan a most original artist of 
greut excellence. 

For iny part, 1 look on Mr. Allan's choosing 
my f.ivourite poem for his subject, to be one 
of the highest compliments I have ever re- 
ceived. 

I am quite vexed at Pleyel's being cooped up 
in France, as it will put an entire stop to our 
work. Now, and for six or seven months, / 
shall be quite in song, as you shall see by and 
by. I got an air, pretty enough, composed by 
Lady Elizabeth Heron of Heron, which she 
calls The Hanks of Cree. Cree is a beautiful 
vomantic stream : and as her Ladyship is a par- 
tcular friend of mine, I have written the fol- 
jwing song to it. 



( The Banks of Cree, p. 226.) 



No. LH. 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

July. 1794. 

Is there no news yet of Pleyel ? Or is your 
work to be at a dead stop, until the allies set 
Dur modern Orpheus at liberty from the sa- 
vage thraldom of democratic discords ? Alas 
the day ! And woe's me ! That auspicious 
period, pregnant with the happiness of rail- 
lions.* — 

I have presented a copy of your songs to the 
daughter of a much-valued, and much -honoured 
friend of mine, Mr. Graham of Fintry. I wrote, 
6E the blank side of the title page, the following 
address to the young lady. 



Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives. 

In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join d. 
Accept the gift ; though humble he who gives. 

Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 

So may no ruffian feeling in thy breast. 
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among ; 

But peace attune thj gentle soul to rest, 
Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song. 

Or pity's notes, in luxury of tears. 

As modest want the tale of woe reveals ; 

While conscious virtue all the strain endears, 
And heaven-born piety her sanction seals. 



No. Lin, 



MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 



MY DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, \Oth Aug. 1794. 
I OWE you an apology for having so long de- 
layed to acknowledge the favour of your last. 
I fear it will be as you say, I shall have no 
more songs from Pleyel till France and we are 
friends ; but, nevertheless, I am very desirous 
to be prepared with the poetry, and as the sea- 
son approaches in which your muse of Coila vi- 
sits you, I trust I shall, as formerly, be frequent- 
ly gratified with the result of your amorous and 
tender interviews ' 



No. LIV. 



• A portion of this letter has been left out, for re 
^ns that will be easily imagined.— Corrie. 



THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

30M August. 1794. 

The last evening, as I was straying out and 
thinking of, O^er the hills and far awa, ] 
spun the following stanza for it ; but whether 
my spinning will deserve to be laid up in store 
like the precious thread of the silk -worm, or 
brushed to the devil, like the vile manufacture 
of the spider, I leave, my dear Sir, to your usuai 
candid criticism. I was pleased with several 
lines in it at first ; but I own, that now, it ap- 
pears rather a flimsy business 

This is just a hasty sketch, until I see whe 
ther it be worth a critique. We have many 
sailor songs ; but, as far as I at present recol- 
lect, they are mostly the effusions of the jovia] 
sailor, not the wailings of his love-lorn mis- 
tress. I must here make one sweet exception 
— Sweet Annie frae the Sea-beach came 
Now for the song. 

( Oil the seas and far away, p,2l9,^ 



412 



I give you leaVc ^o abuse this song, but do it 
in the spirit of christian meekness. 



BURXb'S WORKS 

( Ca^ the yotves fo the knowes, p. 195.) 



No. LV. 



MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

MY DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, \6th Sept. 1794. 

You have anticipated my opinion of, On the 
seas and far away ,- I do not think it one of 
your very happy productions, though it cer- 
tainly contains stanzas that are worthy of all ac- 
ceptation. 

The second is the least to my liking, parti- 
cularly " Bullets, spare my only joy." Con- 
found the bullets ! It might perhaps be object- 
ed to the third verse, " At the starless mid- 
night hour," that it has too much grandeur of 
imagery, and that greater simplicity of thought 
would have better suited the character of a sai- 
lor's sweetheart. The tune, it must be re- 
membered, is of the brisk, cheerful kind. Upon 
the whole, therefore, in my humble opinion, the 
song would be better adapted to the tune, if it 
consisted only of the first and last verses, with 
the chorusses. 



I shall give you my opinion of your othej 
newly adopted songs my first scribbling fit. 



No. LVI. 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

Sept. 1794. 

I SHALL withdraw my, On the seas and far 
■iway, altogether : it is unequal, and unworthy 
the work. Making a poem is like begetting a 
eon : you cannot know whether you have a wise 
man or a fool, unril you produce him to the 
world and try him. 

For that reason I >end you the offspring of 
my brain, abtirtums and all ; and, as such, pray 
look over them, and forgive them, and burn 
them.* I am flattered at your adopting, Ca* 
the yowes to the knowes, as it was owing to me 
that ever it saw the light. About seven years 
ago I was well acquainted with a worthy little 
fellow of a clergyman, a Mr. Clunie, who sung 
it charmingly ; and, at ray request, Mr. Clarke 
took it down from his singing. When I gave 
it to Johuson, I added some stanzas to the song, 
and mended others, but still it will not do for 
you. In a solitary stroll which I took to-day, 
I tried my hand on a few pastoral lines, follow- 
ing up the idea of the chorus, which I would 
preserve. Here it is, with all its crudities and 
imperfections on its head. 



• This Virgilian order of the poet should, I think, 
fee disobeyed with respect to the song in question, 
the seccjnd stanza excei)lecl. — Note by Mr. Thwnsun. 

Doctors ditlcr. The objection to the second stanza 
does not strike the Editor — Cubuie. 



No. LVII. 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

September, 1794. 
Do you know a blackguard Irish song, called 
Onagks water-fall? The air is charming, 
and I have often regretted the want of decent 
verses to it. It is too much, at least for my 
humble rustic muse, to expect that every effort 
of hers shall have merit ; still I think that it is 
better to have mediocre verses to a favourite 
air, than none at all. On this principle I have 
all along proceeded in the Scots Musical Mu- 
seum, and as that publication is in its last vo- 
lume, I intend the following song, to the air 
above mentioned, for that work. 

If it does cot suit you as an editor, you may 
be pleased to have verses to it that you can sing 
before ladies. 

(^Sae flaxen were her ringlets, p. 223.) 

Not to compare small things with great, my 
taste in music is like the mighty Frederick of 
Prussia's taste in painting : we are told that he 
frequently admired what the connoisseurs de- 
cried, and always without any hypocrisy con- 
fessed his admiration. I am sensible that my 
taste in music must be inelegant and vulgar, 
because people of undisputed and cultivated taste 
can find no merit in my favourite tunes. Stilu, 
because I am cheaply pleased, is that any rea- 
son why I should deny myself that pleasure ? 
Many of our strathspeys, ancient and modern, 
give me the most exquisite enjoyment, where 
you and other judges would probably be show- 
ing disgust. For instance, I am just now mak- 
ing verses for Rothemurche^s Rant, an air 
which puts me in raptures ; and in fact, unless 
I be pleased with the tune, I never can make 
verses to it. Here I have Clarke on my side, 
who is a judge that I will pit against any or 
you. '* Rothemurche," he says, " is an air 
both original and beautiful ;" and on his recom- 
mendation I have taken the first part of the 
tune for a chorus, and the fourth or last part 
for the song. I am but two stanzas deep in th« 
work, and possibly you may think, and justly, 
that the poetry is as little worth your attention 
as the music* 

I have begun anew, Let me in this ae night. 
Do you think that we ought to retain the old 
chorus ? I think we must retain both the old 



* In the originaJ follow here two stanzas of the song. 



Lassie wi' the lint-white locks.' 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



413 



chorus and the first stanza of the old song I 
do not altogether like the third line of the first 
stanza, but cannot alter it to please myself. I 
am just three stanzas deep in it. Would you 
have the denouement to be successful or other- 
wise ? — should she " let him in" or not. 

Did you not once propose The Sow's tail to 
Geordie, as an aif for your work ? I am quite 
delighted with it ; but I acknowledge that is 
no mark of its real excellence. I once set about 
verses for it, which I meant to be in the alter- 
nate way of a lover and his mistress chanting 
together. I have not the pleasure of knowing 
Mrs. Thomson's Christian name, and yours, I 
am afraid, is rather burlesque for sentiment, 
else I had meant to have made you the hero 
and heroine of the little piece. 

How do you like the following epigram, 
which I wrote the other day on a lovely young 
girl's recovery from a fever ? Doctor Maxwell 
was the physician who seemingly saved her 
from the grave ; and to him I address the foU 
lowing : — 



TO DR. MAXWELL, 

ON MISS JESSY STAIg's RECOVERY. 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave, 

That merit I deny : 
You save fair Jessy from the grave ! 

An angel could not die I 

God grant you patience with this stupid 
epistle * 



No. LVIIL 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

T PERCEIVE the sprightly muse is now at- 
tendant upon her favourite poet, whose wood- 
nnies wild are become as enchanting as ever. 
She says she lo'es me best o' a, is one of the 
pleasantest table songs I have seen, and hence- 
forth shall be mine when the song is going 
round, I'll give Cunningham a copy ; he can 
more powerfully proclaim its merit. I am far 
from undervaluing your taste for the straths, iey 
music ; on the contrary, I think it highly ani- 
mating and agreeable, and that some of the 
strathspeys, when graced with such verses as 
yours, will make very pleasing songs, in the 
same way that rough Christians are tempered 
and softened by lovely woman, without whom, 
you know, they had been brutes. 

I am clear for having the Sow^s tail, parti- 
ealariy as you proposed verses to it are so ex- 
tremely promising. Geordie, as you observe, 
is a name only fit for burlesque composition. 
Mf»- Thomson's name (Katharine) is not at 



all poetical. Retain Jeanie, therefore, and 
make the other Jamie, or any other that sounds 
agreeably. 

Your Ca^ the yewes, is a precious little mor 
ceau. Indeed I am perfectly istonished and 
charmed with the endless variety of your fancy. 
Here let me ask you, whether you never serious- 
ly turned your thoughts upon dramatic writmg .' 
That is a field worthy of your genius, in which 
it might shine forth in all its splendour. One 
or two successful pieces upon the Loudon stage 
would make your fortune. The rage at present 
is for musical dramas ; few or none of those 
which have appeared since the Duenna, pos- 
sess much poetical merit : there is little in the 
conduct of the fable, or in the dialogue, to inter- 
est the audience. They are chiefly vehicles for 
music and pageantry. I think you might produce 
a comic opera in three acts, which would live 
by the poetry, at the same time that it would be 
proper to take every assistance from her tune- 
ful sister. Part of the songs of course would 
be to our favourite Scottish airs ; the rest might 
be left with the London composer — Storace for 
Drury-lane, or Shield for Covent-garden ; both 
of them very able and popular musicians. I be- 
lieve that interest and manoeuvring are often ne- 
cessary to have a drama brought on : so it n><«v 
be with the namby pamby tribe of flowery 
scribblers ; but were you to address Mr. Sheri- 
dan himself by letter, and send him a dramatic 
piece, I am persuaded he would, for the honour 
of genius, give it a fair and candid trial. Ex- 
cuse me for obtruding these hints upon your con- 
sideration. * 



No. LIX. 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

Edinburgh, \Uh October, 1794. 

The last eight days have been devoted to the 
re-examination of the Scottish collections. I 
have read, and sung, and fiddled, and consider- 
ed, till I am half blind and wholly stupid. The 
few airs I have added, are enclosed. 

Peter Pindar has at length sent me all the 
songs I expected from him, which are in gener- 
al elegant and beautiful. Have you heard of a 
London collection of Scottish airs and songs, 
just published by Mr. Ritson, an Englishman. 
I shall send you a copy. His introductory es- 
say on the subject is curious, and evinces great 
reading and research, but does not decide the 
question as to the origin of our melodies ; 
though he shows clearly that Mr. Tytler, in his 
ingenious dissertation, has adduced no sort of 
proof of the hypothesis he wished to establish ; 
and that his classification of the airs, according 



♦ Our bard had before received the same advice, and 
certainly took it so far into consideration, as to have 
cast about for a subject. 



iU 



BURNS WORKS. 



to the eras when they were composed, is mere 
fancy and conjecture. On John Pinkerton, Esq. 
he has no mercy ; but consigns him to damna- 
tion ! He snarls at my publication, on the score 
of Pindar being engaged to write songs for it ; 
uncandidly and unjustly leaving it to be inferred, 
that the songs of Scottish writers had been sent 
H-packing to make room for Peter's ! Of you he 
speaks with some respect, but gives you a pass- 
ing hit or two, for daring to dress up a little 
some old foolish songs for the Museum. His 
sets of the Scottish airs are taken, he says, from 
the oldest collections and the best authorities : 
many of them, however, have such a strange as- 
})ect, and are so unlike the sets which are sung 
by every person of taste, old or yoimg, in town 
or country, that we can scarcely recognize the 
features of our favourites. By going to the oldest 
collections of our music, it does not follow that 
we find the melodies in their original state. 
These melodies had been preserved, we know 
not how long, by oral communication, before be- 
ing collected and printed ; and as different per- 
sons sing the same air very differently, accord- 
ing to their accurate or confused recollection of 
it, so even supposing the first collectors to have 
possessed the industry, the taste and discernment 
to choose the best they could hear, (which is far 
from certain), still it must evidently be a chance, 
whether the collections exhibit any of the me- 
lodies in the state they were first composed. 
In selecting the melodies for my own collection, 
I have been as much guided by the living as bj 
the dead. Where these differed, I preferred the 
sets that appeared to me the most simple and 
beautiful, and the most generally approved ; 
and, without meaning any compliment to my 
own capability of choosing, or speaking of the 
pains I have taken, I flatter myself that my sets 
will be found equally freed from vulgar errors on 
the one hand, and affected graces on the other. 



No. LX. 



THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

MY DZAR FRIEND, I9th October, 1794. 

By this morning's post I have your list, and, 
in general, I highly approve of it. I shall, at 
more leisure, give you a critique on the whole. 
Clarke goes to your town by to-day's fly, and 
I wish you would call on him and take his opi- 
nion in general : you know his taste is a stand- 
ard. He will return here again in a week or 
two; so, please do not miss asking for him. One 
thing I hope he will do, persuade you to a- 
dopt my ffivourite, Craigie-hurn-wood, in your 
selection : It is as great a favourite of his as of 
mine. The lady on whom it was made is one 
of the finest women in Scotland ; and, in fact, 
{entre nous) is in a manner to me what Sterne's 
Eliza was to him — a mistress, a friend, or what 
vou w 11, in the guileless simplicity of Platonic 



love. (Now ion t put any of • our stjumting 
constructions on this, or have an^ clishmaclaivei 
about it among our acquaintances.) 1 assure 
you that to my lovely friend you are iridebted for 
many of your best songs of mine. Do you think 
that the sober gin-horse routine of existence, 
could inspire a man with life, and love, and joy 
— could fire him with enthusiasm, or melt him 
with pathos, equal to the genius of your book .? 
— No ! no ! — Whenever I want to be more than 
ordinary in song : to be in some degree equal 
to your diviner airs — do you imagine I fast and 
pray for the celestial emanation ? Totd ait 
cnntraire ! I have a glorious recipe ; the very 
one that for his own use was invented by the di- 
vinity of healing and poetry, when erst he piped 
to the flocks of Admetus. I put myself in a re- 
gimen of admiring a fine woman ; and in propor- 
tion to the adorability of her charms, in propor- 
tion you are delighted with my verses. The light- 
ning of her eye is the godhead of Parnassus, and 
the witchery ot her smile the divinity of Heli- 
con ! 

To descend to business ; if you like my idea 
of, When she cam ben she bobbit, the following 
stanzas of mine, altered a little from what they 
were formerly when set to another air, may per 
haps do instead of worse stanzas. 

SAW YE MY PHELY. 

( Quasi dical Phillis.) 

Tune—''' When she came ben she bobbit." 

O saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
O saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
She's down i' the grove, wi' a new love, 
She winna corr.e hame to her Willie. 

What says she, n f dearest, my Phely ? 
What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? 
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot, 
And for ever disowns thee her Willie. 

O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
O had I ne'er seen thee, ray Phely ! 
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, 
Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willie. 



Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. The 
Posie (in the Museum), is my composition : 
the air was taken down from Mrs. Burns 
voice. It is well known in the West Coun- 
try, but the old words are trash. By the bye, 
take a look at the tune again, and tell me if you 
do not think it is the original from which Ros- 
lin Castle is composed. The second part, in 
particular, for the first two or three bars, is ex- 
actly the old air. Strathallan s Lament is 
mine ; the music is by our right-trusty ar'd de- 
servedly well-beloved, Allan Masterton. Do- 
nocht-head, is not mine : I would give tea 
pounds it were. It appeared first in the Edin- 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



415 



bjrgli Herald ; and came to the Editor of that 
paper with the Newcastle post-mark on it.* 
Whistle o'er the lave o't is mine ; the music 
said to be by a Jolm Bruce, a celebrated violin 
player in Dumfries, about the beginning of this 
century. This I know, Bruce, who was an 
honest man, though a red-wud Highlandman, 
constantly claimed it ; and by all the old musi- 
cal people here, is believed to be the author of it. 

Andrew and his cutty gun. The song to 
which this is set in the Museum, is mine ; and 
was composed on Miss Euphemia Murray, of 
Liutrose, commonly and deservedly called the 
Flower of Strathmore. 

How long and dreari/ is the night. I met 
with some such words in a collection of songs 
somewhere, which I altered and enlarged ; and 
to please you, and to suit your favourite air, T 
hare taken a stride or two across my room, and 
have arranged it anew, as you will find on the 
other page. 

(Hmv long and dreary is the night, p. 205.) 

Tell me how you like this. I differ from 
your idea of the expression of the tune. There 
is, to me, a great deal of tenderness in it. You 
cannot, in my opinion, dispense with a bass to 
your addenda airs. A lady of my acquaintance, 
a ncted performer, plays and sings at the same 
time so charmingly, that I shall never bear to 
see any of her songs sent into the world as na- 
kt>f' as Mr. Wbat-d'ye-call-um has done in his 
London collection.f 

These English songs gravel me to death. I 
have not that command of the language that I 
have of my native tongue. I have been at 
Duncan Gray, to dress it in English, but all I 
can do is deplorably stupid. For instance : 

(^Let not woman e'er complain, p. 209. ) 

Since the above, I have been out in the coun- 
try taking a dinner with a friend, where I met 
with the lady whom I mentioned in the second 
page in this odds-and-ends of a letter. As usu- 
al, I got into song ; and returning home, I com- 
posed the following. 

( Sleep' st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature, 
p. 235.) 

If you honour my verses by setting the air to 
them, I will vamp up the old song, and make 
it English enoug'a to be understood. 

I enclose you a musical ccr.osity, an East 
Indian air, which you woulu swear was a Scot- 
tish one. I know the authenticity of it, as the 
gentleman who brought it over is a particular 
acquaintaiice of mine. Do preserve me the 
copy I send you, as it is the only one I have. 



• The reader will be curious to see this poem lo 
\f "' rraised by Burn* ^ee p. 151. 
t Ml. Ruson.' 



Clarke has set a bass to it, and I intend p' t* 
ting it into the Musical Museum. Here fol- 
low the verses I intend for it. 

( The avid man, p. 22b.) 

I would be obliged to you if you would pro- 
cure me a sight of Ritson"s collection of Eng- 
lish songs, which you mention in your letter. 
I will thank you for another information, and 
that as speedily as you please ' wl.ether this 
miserable drawling hotch-potch epistle has not 
completely tired you of my correspondence ? 



No. LXI. 



MR. THOMSON TO THE POET 

Edinburgh, 27th October, 1794. 

I AM sensible, my dear friend, that a genuine 
poet can no more exist without his mistress than 
his meat. I wish I knew the adorable she, 
whose bright eyes and witching smiles have so 
often enraptured the Scottish bard ! that I might 
drink her sweet health when the toast is going 
round Craigie-burn-wood, must certainly he 
adopted into my family, since she is the object 
of the song ; but in the name of decency, I must 
beg a new chorus verse from you. O to be ly- 
ing beyond thee, dearie, is perhaps a consum- 
mation to be wished, but will not do for singing 
in the company of ladies. The songs in youi 
last will do you lasting credit, and suit the re- 
spective airs charmingly. I am perfectly of your 
opinion with respect to the additional airs. The 
idea of sending them into the world naked as 
they were born was ungenerous. They must all 
be clothed and made decent by our friend Clarke. 

I find 1 am anticipated by the friendly Cun- 
ningham, in sending your Ritson's Scottish col- 
lection. Permit me, therefore, to present you 
with his English collection, which you will re- 
ceive by the coach. I do not find his historica 
essay on Scottish song interesting. Your anec- 
dotes and miscellaneous remarks will, I am sure, 
he much more so. Allan has just sketched a 
charming design from Maggie Lauder. She is 
dancing with such spirit as to electrify the piper, 
who seems almost dancing too, while he is play- 
ing with the most exquisite glee. 

I am much inclined to get a small copy, and 
to have it engraved in the style of Ritson's 
prints. 

P. S. — Pray, what do your anecdotes say 
concerning Maggie Lauder? was she a red 
personage, and of what rank ? You would sure- 
ly spier for her if you ca'd at Anstrutli^ 
town. 



4i6 



BURNS' WORKS. 



No. LXII. 



THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

Novemher, 1794. 
Many thanks to you, aiy dear Sir, for your 
present : it is a book of thd utmost importance 
to me. I have yesterday begun my anecdotes, 
&c. for your work. I intend drawing it up in 
the form of a letter to you, which wii! save me 
from the tedious dull business of systematic ar- 
rangement. Indeed, as all I have to say con- 
sists of unconnected remarks, anecdotes, scraps 
of old songs, &c. it would be impossible to give 
the work a beginning, a middle, and an end ; 
which the critics insist to be absolutely neces- 
sary in a work. In my last, I told you my 
objections to the song you had selected for My 
lodging is on the cold ground. On my visit 
the other day to my fair Chloris. (that is the 
poetic name of the lovely goddess of my inspi- 
ration), she suggc-i-cil an idea, which I, in my 
return from the visit, wrought into the follow- 
ing song : — 



(Chloris, p. 197.) 

How do you like the simplicity and tenderness 
of this pastoral ? I think it pretty well. 

I like you for entering so candidly and so 
kindly into the story of Ma chere Amie. 1 as- 
sure you, I was never more in earnest in my 
life, than in the account of that affair which I 
sent you in my last. Conjugal love is a passion 
which 1 deeply feel and highly venerate ; but, 
somehow, it does not marke such a figure in 
poesy as that other species of the passion, 

" Where Love is liberty, and Nature law." 

Musically speaking, the first is an instrument 
of which the gamut is scanty and confined, but 
the tones inexpressibly sweet ; while the last 
has powers equal to all the intellectual modula- 
tions of the human soul. Still, I am a very 
poet in my enthusiasm of the passion. The 
welfare and happiness of the beloved object is 
the first and inviolate sentiment that pervades 
my soul ; and whatever pleasures I might wish 
for, or whatever might be the raptuies they 
would give me, yet, if they interfere with that 
first principle, it is having these pleasures at a 
dishonest price ; and justice forbids, and gene- 
rosity disdains the purchase ! 

Despairing of my own powers to give you 
variety enough in English songs, I have been 
turning over old collections, to pick out songs 
of which the measure is something similar to 
what I want ; and with a little alteration, so as 
^o suit the rhyme of the air exactly, to give you 
Jiem for your work. Where the songs have 
*jitberto been but little noticed, nor have ever 



been set to music, I think the shift a fair Obe. 
A song, which, under the same first verse, yot 
will find in Ramsay's Tea-Table Miscellany, 1 
have cut down for an English dress to /our 
Dainty Davie, as follows . — 

i^ChIoe,p. 196.) 

You may think meanly of this, but take a 
look at the bombast original, and you will be 
surprised that I have made so much of it. I 
have finished my song to Rothernurche' s Rant ; 
and you have Clarke to consult, as to the set of 
the air for singing. 

(Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, p. 208.) 

This piece has at least the merit of being a 
regular pastoral : the vernal morn, the summer 
noon, the autumnal evening, and the winter 
night, are regularly rounded. If you like it, 
well : if not, I will insert it in t"he ^Museum. 

I am out of temper that you should set so 
sweet, so tender an air, as Deil tak the wars, 
to the foolish old verses. You talk of the silli- 
ness of Saw ye my father ; by heavens, the 
odds is, gold to brass ! Besides, the old song, 
though now pretty well modernized into the 
Scottish language, is originally, and in the ear- 
ly editions, a bungling low imitation of the 
Scottish manner, by that genius Tom D'Urfey ; 
so has no pretensions to be a Scottish produc- 
tion. There is a pretty English song by She- 
ridan in the Duenna, to this air, which is out 
of sight superior to D'Urfey 's. It begins, 

" When sable night each drooping plant re- 
storing." 

The air, if I understand the expression of it 
properly, is the very native language of simpli- 
city, tenderness, and love. I have again gone 
over my song to the tune as follows.* 

Now for my English song to Nancy^s to the 
Greenwood, &c. 



(Marias Dwell ng, p. 260.) 

There is an air, The Caledonian Hunfs de- 
light, to which I wrote a song that you wii 
find in Johnson. Ye banks and braes o' bonn* 
Doon ; this air, I think, might find a place a- 
mong your hundred, as Lear says of his knights. 
Do you know the history of the air ? It is cu- 
rious enough. A good many years ago, Mr 
James Miller, writer in your good town, a gen- 
tleman whom possibly you know, was in com- 
pany with our friend Clarke ; and talking o 
Scottish music. Miller expressed an ardent am- 
bition to be able to compose a S(!ots air, Mr 



I I 



♦ See the song in its first and best dress iii p 1 /i 



CORRESPONDKJNCE. 



417 



Clarke, partly by way of joke, told him to keep 
So the black keys of the harpsichord, and pre- 
serve some kind of rhyme ; and he would in- 
fallibly compose a Scots air. Certain it is that, 
in a few days, Mr. Miller produced the rudi- 
ments of an air, which Mr. Clarke, with some 
touches and corrections, fashioned into the tune 
in question. Ritson, you know, has the same 
story of the JBlack Keys; but this account 
which I have just given you, Mr. Clarke in- 
formed me of, several years ago. Now to shew 
you how difficult it is to trace the origin of our 
airs, I have heard it repeatedly asserted that this 
was an Irish air ; nay, I met with an Irish gen- 
tleman who affirmed he had heard it in Ireland 
among the old women ; while, on the ether 
hand, a Countess informed me, that the first 
person who introduced the air into this country, 
was a baronet's lady of her acquaintance, who 
took down the notes from an itinerant piper in 
the Isle of Man. How difficult then to ascer- 
tain the truth respecting our poesy and music ' 
I, myself, have lately seen a couple of ballads 
Bung thiough the streets of Dumfries, with 
my name at the head of them as the author, 
though it was the first time I had ever seen 
them. 

I thank you for admitting Craiyie-hurn- 
tcood ; and I shall take care to furnish you with 
a new chorus. In fact, the chorus was not my 
work, but a part of some old verses to the air. 
If I can catch myself in a more than ordinarily 
propitious moment, I shall write a new Craigie- 
burn-ivood altogether. My heart is much in 
the theme. 

I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the 
request ; 'tis dunning your generosity ; but in 
a moment, when I had forgotten whethtr I was 
rich or poor, I promised Chloris a copy of your 
songs. It wrings my honest pride to write you 
this ; but au ungracious request is doubly so 
by a tedious apology. To make you some a- 
niends, as soon as I have extracted the neces- 
sary information out of them, 1 will return you 
Ritson's volumes. 

The lady is not a little proud that she is to 
make so distinguished a figure in your collection, 
and I am. not a little proud that I have it in 
my power to please her so much. Lucky it is 
for your patience that my paper is done, for 
when I am in a scribbling humour, I know not 
when to give over. 



No. LXIII. 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

MY GOOD SIR, \bth November, 179-1. 

Since receiving your last, I have had ano- 
ther interview with Mr. Clarke, and a long con- 
sultation. He thinks the Culedoniun Hunt is 



more Bacchanalian than amorous In its nature, 
and recommends it to you to match the air ac- 
cordingly. Pray did it ever occur to you how 
peculiarly well the Scottish airs are adapted for 
verses in the form of a dialogue ? The first 
part of the air is generally low, and suited for 
a man's voice, and the second part in many in- 
stances cannot be sung, at concert pitch, but by 
a female voice. A song thus performed makes 
an agreeable variety, but few of ours are writ- 
ten in this form : I wish you would think of it 
in some of those that remain. The only one of 
the kind you have sent me, is admirable, and 
will be an universal favourite. 

Your verses for Rothemurche are so sweetly 
pastoral, and your serenade to Chloris, for JDeil 
tuk the wars, so passionately tender, that I have 
sung myself into raptures with them. Your 
song for My lodging is on the cold ground, is 
likewise a diamond of the first water ; I am 
quite dazzled and delighted by it. Some of your 
Chlorises I suppose have flaxen hair, from your 
partiality for this colour ; else we differ about 
it ; for I should scarcely conceive a woman to 
be a beauty, on reading that she had lint-white 
locks ! 

Farewell thou stream that winding flows, I 
think excellent, but it is mu-ch too serious to 
come after Nancy : at least it would seem an 
incongruity to piovide the same air with merry 
Scottish and melancholy English verses ! The 
moie that the two sets of verses resemble each 
other in their general character, the better. 
Those you have manufactured for Dainty 
Davie, will answer charmingly. I am happy 
to find you have begun your anecdotes: I care 
not how long they be, for it is impossible that 
any thing from your pen can be tedious. Let 
me beseech you not to use ceremony in telling 
me when you wish to present any of your friends 
with the songs : the next carrier will bring you 
three copies, and you are as welcome to t\%enty 
as to a pinch of snuff. 



No. LXiV. 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

19M November, 1794. 
You see, my dear Sir, what a punctual cor- 
respondent I am ; though indeed you may thank 
yourself for the tedium of my letters, as you 
have so flattered me on my horsemanship with 
my favourite hobby, ami have praised the 
grace of his ambling so nmch, that 1 am scarce- 
ly ever off his back. For instance, this mor- 
ning, though a keen blowing frost, in my walk 
before breakfast, 1 finished my duet which you 
were pleased to praise so much. Whether I 
have uniformly succee<led, 1 will not say ; but 
here it is for you, though it is not an hour old. 



418 



BURNS' WORKS. 



( OPhilhj, happy he that day, p. 220.) 

Tell me honestly how you like it ; and point 
out whatever you think faulty. 

I am much pleased with your idea of singing 
flur songs in alternate stanzas, and regret that 
you did not hint it to me sooner. In those that 
reiriain, I shall have it in my eye. I remember 
your objections to the name Philly ; but it is 
the common abbreviation of Phillis, Sally, the 
only other name that suits, has, to my ear, a 
vulgarity about it, which unfits it for any thing 
except burlesque. The legion of Scottish poe- 
tasters of the day, whom your brother editor, 
Mr. Ritson, ranks with me, as my coevals, have 
always mistaken vulgarity for simplicity ; where- 
as, simplicity is as much eloignee from vulgarity 
on the one hand, as from affected point and puer- 
ile, conceit on the other. 

I agree with you as to the air, Craigie-hvrn- 
woocf, that a chorus would in some degree spoil 
the effect, and shall certainly have none in my 
projected song to it. It is not however a case 
in point with Rothiemurchie ; there, as in Roy's 
Wife of Aldivalloch, a chorus goes, to my taste, 
well enough. As to the chorus going first, that 
is the case with Roys Wife, as well as Rot hi e- 
wvrchie. In fact, in the first part of both tunes, 
the rhyme is so peculiar and irregular, and on 
that irregularity depends so much of their beau- 
ty, that we must e'en take them with all their 
wildness, and humour the verse accordingly. 
Leaving out the starting note, in both tunes, has, 
I think, an effect that no regularity could coun- 
terbalance the want of. 



( O Roy's wife of Aldivalloch. 



lassie wi' the lint -white locks. 



Try 

and 

Compare ( Roy's wife of Aldivalloch. 
with \ Lassie wi' the lint-white locks 

Does not the tameness of the prefixed syllable 
strike you ? In the last case, with the true 
furor of genius, you strike at once into the wild 
originality of the air ; whereas in the first insi- 
pid method, it is like the grating screw of the 
pin« before the fiddle is brought into tune. This 
as my taste ; if I am wrong, I beg paidon of the 
iCdgnoseeiiti. 

live Caledonian Hunt is so charming, that 
yi iwould make any subject in a song go down ; 
but pathos is certainly its native tongue. Scot- 
tish 'Bacchanalians we certainly want, though the 
few v/e luive arc excellent. For instance, Tod- 
lin ham£ i«, for wit and humour, an unparalleled 
<'()mpoGitioa ; and Andrew and his ctttty yun is 
the work of a master. By the way, are you not 
tjuite veied to think that those men of genius, 
fir such they certainly were, who composed our 
fine Scottish lyrics, should be unknown ! It has 
tfiven me many a heart-ache. Apropos to Bac- 
chanalian songs in Scottish ; I composed one 
yfesterday-for an a-f I like much — Luinjts 6* pud 
fUnn. I 



( Contented wi^ little, and cantie wi mair, n 
197.) 

Since yesterday's penmanship, I have frameo 
a couple of English Stanzas, by way of an Eng 
lish song to Roy's wife. You will allow ma 
that in this instance, my English corresponds in 
sentiment with the Scottish. 

( Canst thou leave me tints, my Katy 9 p. 196.) 

Well ! I think this, to be done in two or three 
turns across my room, and with two or three 
pinches of Irish Blackguard, is not so far amiss. 
You see I am determined to have my quantum 
of applause from somebody. 

Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure that we 
only want the trifling circumstance of being 
known to one another, to be the best friends on 
earth), that I much suspect he has, in his plates, 
mistaken the figure of the stock and horn. I 
have, at last, gotten one ; but it is a very rude 
instrument. It is composed of three parts ; the 
stock, which is the hinder thigh-bone of a sheep, 
such as you see in a mutton-ham ; the horn, 
which is a common Highland cow's horn, cut 
off at the smaller end, until the aperture be large 
enough to adrnit the stock to be pushed up 
through the horn, until it be held by Uie thicker 
end of the thigh-bone ; and lastly, art oaten 
reed exactly cut and notched like that which 
you see every shepherd- boy have, when the 
corn stems are green and full-grown. The reed 
is not made fast in the bone, but is held by the 
lips, and plays loose in the smaller end of the 
stock ; while the stock, with the horn hanging 
on its larger end, is held by the hands in play- 
ing. The stock has six or seven ventiges on the 
upper side, and one back-ventige, like the com- 
mon flute. This of mine was ma<le by a man 
from the braes of Athole, and is exactly what 
the shepherds wont to use in that country. 

However, either it is not quite properly bored 
in the holes, or else we have not the art of blow- 
ing it rightly ; for we can make little of it. If 
Mr Allan chooses, I will send him a sight of 
mine ; as I look on myself to be a kind of bro- 
ther-brush with him. " Pride in Poets ia nae 
sin," and, I will say it, that I look on Mr. Al- 
lan and Mr. Burns to be the only genuine and 
real painters of Scottish costume in the world 



No. LXV. 

MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

28M November, 1794. 
1 ACKNOWLEDGE, my dear Sir, you are not 
only the most punctual, but the most delectable 
correspondent I ever met with. To attempt 
fiattering you never entered my head ; the truth 
i>, 1 look back with surprise at my iiiiijudtiu-.i-;. 



li 



li 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



419 



I I 



il 



m so fTe:juently nibbling at lines and couplets 
of your incomparable lyrics, for which, perhaps, 
tf you had served me right, you would have 
ent me to the devil. On the contrary, how- 
ever, you have all along condescended to invite 
my criticism with so much courtesy, that it 
ceases to be wonderful, if I have sometimes 
given myself the airs of a reviewer. Your last 
budget demands unqualified praise : all the songs 
are charming, but the duet is a chief d'oeuvre. 
Lumps of pudding shall certainly make one of 
my family dishes; you have cooked it so capi- 
tally, that it will please all palates. Do give 
us a few more of this cast, when you find your- 
self in good spirits : these . convivial songs are 
more wanted than those of the amorous kind, 
of which we have great choice. Besides, one 
does not often meet with a singer capable of 
giving the proper effect to the latter, while the 
former are easily sung, and acceptable to every 
, body. I participate in your regret that the au- 
thors of some of our best songs are unknown ; it 
is provoking to every admirer of genius. 

I mean to have a picture painted from your 
beautiful ballad, The Soldier's return, to be en- 
graved for one of my frontispieces. The most 
interesting point of time appears to me, when 
she first recognizes her ain dear Willy, " She 
gaz'd, she redden'd like a rose." The three lines 
immediately following, are no doubt more im- 
pressive on the reader's feelings ; but were the 
pamter to fix on these, then you'll observe the 
animation and anxiety of her countenance is 
gone, and he could only represent her fainting 
in the soldier's arms. But I submit the matter 
to you, and beg your opinion. 

Allan desires me to thank you for your ac- 
curate description of the stock and horn, and 
for the very gratifying compliment you pay him 
in considering him worthy of standing in a niche 
by the side of Burns in the Scottish Pantheon. 
He has seen the rude instrument you describe, 
so does not want you to send it ; but wishes to 
know whether you believe it to have ever been 
generally used as a musical pipe by the Scottish 
shepherds, and when, and in what part of the 
country chiefly. I doubt much if it was capa- 
ble of any thing but routing and roaring. A 
friend of mine says, he remembers to have heard 
one in his younger days (made of wood instead 
of your bone), and that the sound was abomin- 
able. 

Do not, I beseech you, return any books. 



No. LXVI. 
'?HE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

December, 1794. 

It is, I assure you, the pride of my heart to 

do any thing to forward, or add to the value of 

jrour book : and as I agree with you that the 



Jacobite song, in the Museum, to There'll never 
be peace till Jamie comes hame, would not so 
well consort with Peter Pindar's excellent love- 
song to that air, I have just framed for yon the 
following : 

(Mi/ Nannie's awa, p. 212.) 

How does this please you ? As to the point 
of time for the expression, in your proposed 
print from my Sodger's return .- It must cer- 
tainly be at — " She gazed." The interesting 
dubiety and suspense, taking possession of her 
countenance ; and the gushing fondness, with 
a mixture of roguish playfulness in his, strike 
me, as things of which a niaster will make a 
great deal. In great haste, but in great truth, 
yours. 



No. LXVII. • 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

January, 1795. 
I FLAR for my songs: however, a few may 
please, yet originality is a coy feature in com- 
position, and in a multiplicity of efforts in the 
ame style, disappears altogether. For these 
three thousand years, we poetic folks have been 
describing the spring, for instance ; and as the 
spring continues the same, there must soon be 
a sameness in the imagery, &c. of these said 
rhyming folks. 

A great critic, Aiken on songs, says, that 
lov e qnd wine are the exclusive themes for song 
writing. The following is on neither subject, 
and consequently is no song ; but will be al- 
lowed, I think, to be two or three pretty good 
prose thoughts, inverted into rhyme. 

( A man^s a man for a that, p. 67. ) 

I do not give j^^u the foregoing song for your 
book, but merely by way of vive la bagatelle ; 
for the piece Is not really poetry. How will 
the following do for Craigie-burn-wood ? 

{Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, p. 224.) 

Farewell ! God bless you. 



No. LXVIII. 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

MY DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, 30th Jan. J 795 

I THANK you heartily for Nannie's awa, as 
well as for Craigie-burn, which I tliink a very 
coKMily pair. Your observation on the difficult 



I 



420 



ty of original writing in a number of efforts, in 
the same style, strikes me very forcibly ; and it 
has again and again excited my wonder to find 
you continually surmounting this difficulty, in 
the many delightful songs you have sent me. 
Your vive la bagatelle song, For a' that, shall 
undoubtedly be included in my list. 



No. LXIX. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

. February, 1793. 

Here is another trial at your favourite air. 

( O let me in this ae night, and Answer, 
/). 217.) 

I do Qot know whether it will do. 



BURNS' WORKS. 

am just going to bed, [ wish you a good 



As 
night. 



No. LXX. 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

Ecchfechan, 1th Feb. 1795. 

MY DEAR THOMSON, 

You cannot have any idea of the predica- 
ment in which I write to you. In the course 
of my duty as supervisor (in which capacity I 
have acted of late) I came yesternight to this 
unfortunate, wicked, little village. I have gone 
forward, but snows of ten feet deep have im- 
peded my progress : I have tried to " gae back 
the gate I cam again," but the same ol)stacle 
has shut me up within insuperable bars. To add 
to my misfortune, since dinner, a scraper has 
been torturing catgut, in soynds that would 
have insulted the dying agonies of a sow, under 
the hands of a butcher, and thinks himself, on 
that very account, exceeding good company. In 
fact, I have been in a dilemma, either to get 
drunk, to forget these miseries ; or to hang my- 
self, to get rid of them : like a prudent man, 
(a character congenial to my every thought, 
word, and deed), I, of two evils have chosen 
the least, and am very drunk, at your service !* 
I wrote you yesterday from Dumfries. I 
had not time then to tell you all I wanted to 
say ; and heaven knows, at present, I have not 
capacity. 

Do you know an air — I am sure you must 
know it, We'll gang nae mair to yon town : I 
think, in slowish time, it would make an excel- 
lent song. I am highly delighted with it ; and 
if you should think it worthy of your attention, 
I have a fair dame in my eye to whom I would 
consecrate it. 



No. LXXI. 

MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

25th February, 1795, 
I HAVE to thank you, my dear Sir, for two 
epistles, one containing Let me in this ae night ; 
and the other from Ecclefechan, proving, that 
drunk or sober, your •* mind is never muddy.'' 
You have displayed great address in the above 
song. Her answer is excellent, and at the same 
time takes away the indelicacy that otherwise 
would have attached to his entreaties. I likt 
the song as it now stands very much. 

I had hopes you would be arrested some days 
at Ecclefechan, and be obliged to beguile the 
tedious forenoons by song making. It will 
give me pleasure to receive the verses yoa in- 
tend for, O wat ye ivha's in yon town f 



• The bard must have been tipsy indeed, to abuse 
iweet Ecc >techan at this rate. 



No. Lxxn. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

May, 1795. 
( The Woodlark, p, 237. ) 

Let me know your very first leisure how yoh 
like this song. 

{Long, long the night, p. 207 ) 

How do you like the foregoing ? The Irish 
air, Humours of Glen, is a great favourite o. 
mine, and as, except the silly stuff in the Poor 
Soldier, there are not any decent verses for it, 
I have written for it as follows : 

( Their groves o' sioeet myrtle let foreign landi 
reckon, p 195. ) 

('Twasna her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin, 
p. 237.) 

Let me hear from you. 

No. LXXIIL 

MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

You must not think, my good Sir, that I 
have any intention to enhance the value of my 



gift, when I say, in justice to the ingenious and 
worthy artist, that the design and execution of 
The Cotter* s Saturday Night is, in my opi- 
nion, one of the happiest productions of Allan's 
pencil. I shall be grievously disappointed if 
you a.« not quite pleased with it. 

Ine figure intended for your portrait, I think 
strikingly Hke you, as far as I can remember 
your phiz. This should make the piece inter- 
esting to your family every way. Tell me 
whether Mrs, Burns finds you out among the 
figures. 

I cannot express the feeling of admiration 
with which I have read your pathetic Address 
to the Woodlark, your elegant Panegyric on 
Caledonia, and your affecting verses on Chlo- 
ris* illness. Every repeated perusal of these 
gives new delight. The other song to Laddie 
lie near me, though not equal to these, is very 
oleasing. 



No. LXXIV. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

(How cruel are the parents, p. 204. ) 

(Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, p. 21 1.) 

Well ! this is not amiss. You see how I 
answer your orders : your tailor could not be 
more punctual. I am just now in a high fit 
of poetizing, provided that the strait-jacket of 
criticism don't cure me. If you can in a post 
or two administer a little of the intoxicating 
potion of your applause, it will raise your hum- 
ble servant's phrenzy to any height you want. 
I am at this moment " holding high converse" 
with the Muses, and have not a word to throw 
away on such a prosaic dog as you are. 



No. LXXV. 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

May, 1795. 
Ten thousand thanks for your elegant pre- 
sent ; though I am ashamed of the value of it, 
being bestowed on a man who has not by any 
means merited such an instance of kindness. I 
have shown it to two or three judges of the 
first abilities here, and they all agree with me 
in classing it as a first-rate production. My 
phiz is " sae kenspeckle," that the very joiner's 
apprentice whom Mrs. Burns employed to break 
sip the parcel (I was out of town that day) 
knew it at once. M,y most grateful compli- 
ments fo Allan, who has honoured my rustic 
muse so much with his masterly pencil. One 



strange coincidence is, that the little one who 
is making the felonious attempt on the cat's tail 
is the most striking likeness of an " ill-deedie., 
d — n'd, wee, rumble-garie, urchin" of mine-y 
whom, from that propensity to witty wicked- 
ness and manfu' mischief, which, even at twa 
days auld, I foresaw would form the striking 
features of his disposition, I named Willie Nicoll, 
after a certain friend of mine, who is one of the 
masters of a grammar-school in a city which 
shall be nameless. 

Give the enclosed epigram to my much- 
valued friend Cunuingham, and tell him that 
on Wednesday I go to visit a friend of his, to 
whom his friendly partiality in speaking of me, 
in a manner introduced me — I mean a well 
known military and literary character, Colonel 
Dirom. 

You do not tell me hov^ you liked ray two 
last songi. Are they condemned ? 



No. LXXVI. 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

13th May, 1795. 

It gives me great pleasure to find that yoa 
are all so well satisfied with Mr. Allan's pro- 
duction. The chance resemblance of your little 
fellow, whose promising disposition appeared so 
very early, and suggested whom he should be 
named after, is curious enough. I am acquaint- 
ed with that person, who is a prodigy of learn- 
ing and genius, and a pleasant fellow, though 
no saint. 

You really make me blush when you tell me 
you have not merited the drawing from me. I 
do not think I can ever repay you, or sufficient- 
ly esteem and respect you for the liberal and 
kind manner in which you have entered into 
the spirit of my undertaking, which could not 
have been perfected without you : So I beg you 
would not make a fool of me again, by speaking 
of obligation. 

I like your two last songs very much, and 
am happy to find you are in such a high fit of 
poetizing. Long may it last. Clarke has made 
a fine pathetic air to Mallet's superlative ballad 
of William and Margaret, and is to give it to 
me, to be enrolled among the elect. 



No. LXXVU. 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

In Whistle and Fit come to ye, my lad, the 
iteration of that line is tiresome to my eaj» 
Here goes what I think is an imurovemeat • 



422 



BURNS' WORKS. 



O whistle, unil VW come to ye, my lad ; 
O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad ; 
Tho' father, and mother, and a' should gae mad, 
Thy Jeany will venture wi' ytfji^my lad. 

In fact, a fair dame at whose shrine I, the 
Priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Par- 
nassus ; a dame whom the Graces have attired 
in witchcraft, and whom the Loves have arm- 
ed with lightning, a Fair One, herself the he- 
roine of the song, insists on the amendment ; 
and dispute her commands if you dare ! 

( O this is no my ain lassie, p. 238.) 

Do you know that you have roused the tor- 
pidity of Clarke at last ? He has requested me 
to write three or four songs for him, which he 
is to set to music himself. The enclosed sheet 
contains two songs for him, which please to 
present to my valued friend Cunningham. 

I enclose the sheet open, both for your in- 
spection, and that you may copy the song, O 
bonnie was yon rosie brier, I do not know 
whether I am right ; but that song pleases me, 
and as it is extremely probable that Clarke's 
newly roused celestial spark will soon be smoth- 
ered in the fogs of indolence, if you like the 
song, it may go as Scottish verses, to the air of, 
/ wish my love was in a mire ; and poor Er- 
skine's English lines may follow. 

I enclose you For a' that and a' that, which 
was raver in print : it is a much superior song 
to mme. I have been told that it was com- 
posed by a lady. 



(Now Spring has clad the prove in green, p. 

214.) 

( O bonnie was yon rosy brier, p. 216.) 

Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the last 
edition of my poems, presented to the lady, whom, 
in so many fictitious reveries of passion, but with 
the most ardent sentiments of real friendship, I 
have so often sung under the name of Chloris : 

*Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend, 

Nor tnou the gift refuse, 
Nor witn unwilling ear attend 

The moralizing muse. 

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, 

Must bid the world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) 

To join the friendly few. 

Since thy gay morn of life o'ercast, 

Chill came the tempest's lour ; 
(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 

Did nip a fairer flower). 

Since life's gay scenes must charm no inore> 
iStill much is left behind ; 



Still nobler wealth hast thou in stosrt. 
The comforts of the mind ! 

Thine is the self-approving glow, 
On conscious honour's part ; 

And, dearest gift of heaven below, 
Thine friendship's truest heart. 

The joys refined of sense and taste, 
With every muse to rove ; 

And doubly were the poet blest 
These joys could he improve. 



Une bagatelle de I'amitie. 



No. LXXVIII. 
MR. THOMSON TO THE FOEl. 

MY DEAR SIR, Edinburgh, 3d Aug. 1796k 

This will be delivered to you by a Dr. Brian- 
ton, who has read your works, and pants foi 
the honour of your acquaintance. I do no 
know the gentleman, but his friend, who applied 
to me for this introduction, being an excellent 
young man, I have no doubt he is worthy of all 
acceptation. 

My eyes have just been gladdened, and my 
mind feasted, with your last packet — full oi 
pleasant things indeed. What an imagination 
is yours ! It is superfluous to tell you that I 
am delighted with all the three songs, as well as 
with your elegant and tender verses to Chloris. 

1 am sorry you should be induced to alter 
O whistle and I II come to ye, my lad, to th( 
prosaic line. Thy Jeany, will venture wV ye m^ 
lad. I must be permitted to say, that I do njt 
think the latter either reads or sings so well as 
the former. I wish, therefore, you would in my 
name petition the charming Jeany, whoever she 
be, to let the line remain unaltered.* 

I should be happy to see Mr. Clarke produce 
a few airs to be joined to your verses. Every 
body regrets his writing so very little, as every 
body acknowledges his ability to write well. 
Pray, was the resolution formed coolly before 
dinner, or was it a midnight vow made over a 
bowl of punch with the bard ? 

I shall not fail to give Mr. Cunningham what 
you have sent him. 

P. S.— The lady's For a' that and a' that is 
sensible enough, but no more to be compared to 
yours than I to Hercules. 



* The Editor, who has heard the heroine of this song 
sing it herself in the very spirit of arch simplicity Dtat 
it requires, thinks Mr. Thomson's petition unreajoa- 
able— CuKRiE. 



COaRESPONDENCE. 



423 



No. LXXIX 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

ENGLISH SONG. 

Tune — " Let me in this ae night." 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, 
Far, far fi-om thee, I wander here ; 
Far, far fi*om thee, the fate severe 
At which I most repine, love. 

O wert thou, love, but near me, 
Sut near, near, near me ,• 
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me, 
And mingle sighs with mine, love. 

Around me scowls a wintry sky. 
That blasts each hud of hope and joy ; 
And shelter, shade, nor home have I, 
Save in these arms of thine, love. 
O wert, ^c. 

Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part, 

To poison fortune's ruthless dart — 

Let me not break thy faithful heart, 

And say that fate is mine, love. 

O wert, 8fc. 

But dreary tho* the moments fleet, 
O let roe think we yet shall meet ! 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris shine, love. 
O wert, ^c. 

How do you like the foregoing ? I have 
written it within this hour : so much for the 
speed of my Pegasus ; but what say you to his 
bottom f 



No. LXXX. 

THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

(^Ziost Mag a hraw wooer cam down the lang 
glen, p. 206. ) 

FRAGMENT. 
Tune—" The Caledonian Hunfs delight." 

Why, why tell thy lover. 

Bliss he never must enjoy ; 
Why, why undeceive him, 

And give all his hopes the lie. 
O why, while fancy, raptured, slumbers, 

Chloris, Chloris all the theme, 
Why, why wouldst thou, cruel, 

Wake thy lover from his dream. 



Such is the peculiarity of the rhyme of this 
air, that I find it impossible to make anothei 
stanza to suit it. 

I am at present quite occupied with the charm- 
ing sensations of the toothache, so have not a 
word to spare. 



No. LXXXI. 

MR. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

MV DEAR SIR, 3d June, 1795. 

Your English verses to Let me in this ae 
night, art tender and beautiful ; and your bal- 
lad to the " Lothian lassie" is a master-piece 
for its humour and naivete. The fragment for 
the Caledonian Hunt is quite suited to the ori- 
ginal measure of the air, and, as it plagues you 
so, the fragment must content it. I would ra- 
ther, as I said before, have had Bacchanalian 
words, had it so pleased the poet ; but, never- 
theless, for what we have received, Lord make 
us thankful ! 



No. LXXXIL 

THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

5th Feb. 1796. 
O Robhy Burns are ye sleeping yet 9 
Or are ye wauking, 1 would wit 9 

The pause you have made, my dear Sir, is 
awful ! Am I never to hear fioni you again ? 
I know and I lament how much you have been 
afflicted of late, but I trust that returning health 
and spirits will now enable you to resume the 
pen, and delight us with your musings. I have 
still about a dozen Scotch and Irish airs that I 
wish " married to immortal verse." We have 
several true born Irishmen on the Scottish list ; 
but they are now naturalized, and reckoned our 
own good subjects. Inrleed we have none bet- 
ter. 1 believe I before told you that I have been 
much urged by some friends to publish a col- 
lection of all our favourite airs and songs in oc- 
tavo, embellished with a number of etchings by 
our ingenious friend Allan ; what is your opi. 
nion of this ? 



No. LXXXIIL 

THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

February, 1796. 
Many thanks, my dear Sir. for your hand- 
Huine, elegant present to Mrs. B . and fos 



424 



BURNS' WORKS. 



my f*mainiag vol. of P. P ndar. — Peter is a 
delight-ful fellow, and a first favourite of mine. 
I am nuicb pleased with your idea of publish- 
ing a collection of our songs in octavo with 
etchino[s. I am extremely willing to lend eve- 
ry assistance in ray power. The Irish airs I 
shall cheerfully undertake the task of finding 
verses foT. 

I have already, you know, equipt three with 
words, and the other day I strung up a kind of 
rhapsody to another Hibernian melody, which 1 
admire much. 

( Hey for a lass wV a tocher^ p. 23S.) 

If this will do, you have now four of my 
liish engagement. In ray by-past songs, I dis- 
like one thing ; the name Chb)ris — I meant it 
as the fictitious name of a certain lady ; but, 
on second thoughts, it is a high incongruity to 
have a Greek appellation to a Scottish pastoral 
ballad. — Of this, and some things else, in my 
uext : I have more amendments to propose. — 
What you once mentioned of " flaxen locks" 
is }u8t : they cannot enter into an elegant de- 
scription of beauty. Of this also again — God 
bless vou ! • 



No. LXXXIV. 
»IIl. THOMSON TO THE POET. 

Your Hey for a lass wi" a tocher, is a most 
excellent song, and with you the subject is 
something new indeed. It is the first time I have 
Been you debasing the god of soft desire, into an 
amateur of acres and guineas. — 

I am happy to find ya approve of my pro- 
posed octavo edition Allan has designed and 
etched about twenty plates, and I am to have 
my choice of them for that work. Indepen- 
dently of the Ilogartliian humour with which 
they abound, they exhibit the diameter and 
cobtume of the Scottish peasantry with inimi- 
table felicity. In this respect, he himself says, 
they will far exceed the a(juatinta plates he did 
for the Gentle Shepherd, because in tiiu etching 
he sees clearly what he is doing, but not so 
with the aquatinta, which he could not manage 
to his mind. 

The Dutch boors of Ostade are scarcely more 
characteristic and natural than the Scottish 
figures in those etchings. 



Nd. LXXXV. 



• C)\u VaeX never explained what name he wo'ilj 
k«vc suMUtutvtl tut ChluriA.— yVof£ by Mr. Th 



THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

April, 1796. 
.A. LAS, my dear Thomson, I fear it will b# 
some time ere I tune my lyre again ! " By 
Babel streams I have sat and wept," almost ever 
siiice I wrote you last: I have only known ex- 
istence by the pressure of the heavy hand of 
sickness, and have counted time by the reper- 
cussions of paiu ! Rheumatism, cold, and fever 
have formed to me a terrible combination. 1 
close my eyes in misery, and open them with- 
out hope. I look on the vernal day, and say, 
with poor Ferguson — 

" Say wherefore has an all-indulgent Heaven 
" Light to the comfortless and wretched given ?** 

This will be delivered to you by a Mrs. Hy- 
slop, landlady of the Globe Tavern here, which 
for these many years has been my howff, and 
where our friend Clarke and I have had many 
a merry squeeze. I am highly delighted with 
Mr. Allan's etchings. Wo6*d and married 
and a* is admirable ! The grouping is beyond 
all praise. The expression of the figures, con- 
formable to the story in the ballad, is absolutely 
faultless perfection. I next admire Turnim- 
spike. What I like least is, Jenny said to 
Jncky. Besides the female being in her ap- 
pearance if you take her stoop- 
ing into the account, she is at least two inches 
taller thnn her lover. Poor Cleghorn ! I sin- 
cerely sympathize with him ! Happy I am 
to think that he yet has a well-grounded 
hope of health and enjoyment in this world. 
As for me — but that is a * • * * sub- 
ject ! 



No LXXXVI. 
MR. THOMSON TO THE POET 

'^th May, 1796. 

I NEED not tell you, my good Sir, what con 
cern the receipt of your last gave me, and how 
much I sympathize in your suflferings. But 
do not, I beseech you, give yourself up to de- 
spondency, nor speak the language of de- 
spair. The vigour of your constitution I trust 
will soon set you on your feet again ; and thep 
it is to be hoped you will see the wisdom and 
the necessity of taking due care of a life so va- 
luable to your family, to your friends, and to 
the world. 

Trusting that your next will bring agreeable 
accounts of your convalescence, and returning 
go'jii ispirits, I remain, with sincere regard 
yours. 

P. .'^. Mrs. Hyslop I doubt not delivered tha 
Ijoul seal to you \u good condition. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



423 



No. LX XXVII. 
THE POET TO MR. THOMSON. 

Kr DEAR SIR, 

I ONCE mentioned to yoi. an air which I have 
long admired — Here's a health to them that's 
aiva, hineijy but I forget if you took any notice 
of it. I have just been trying to suit it with 
verses ; and I beg leave to recommend the air 
to your attention once more. I have only be- 
gun it. 



f Here^s a health to ane I lo'e dear, p. 204.) 



No. LXXXVIII. 
THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

Tims will be delivered by a Mr. Lewars, a 
young fellow of uncommon merit. As he will 
be a day or two in town, you will have leisure, 
if you choose, to write me by him ; and if you 
have a spare half hour to spend with him, I 
shall place your kindness to my account. I 
have no copies of the songs I have sent you, 
and I have taken a fancy to review them all, 
and possibly may mend some of them ; so when 
you have complete leisure, I will thank you for 
either the originals, or copies. * I had rather 
be the author of five well-written songs than of 
ten otherwise. I have great hopes that the ge- 
nial influence of the approaching summer will 
set me to rights, but as yet I cannot boast of 
returning health. I have now reason to believe 
that my complaint is a flying gout : a sad busi- 
ness ! 

Do let me know how Cleghorn is, and re- 
member me to him. 

This should have been delivered to you a 
month ago. I am still very poorly, but should 
6ke much to hear from you. 



No. L XXXIX. 

THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

Brow, on the Solway frith, 12th Juh,, 1796. 

After all my boasted independerce, curst 
aecessity compels me to implore ycu for five 



pounds. A cruel of a laberdasher. 

to whom I owe an account, takmg it into hig 
head that I am dying, has commenced a pro- 
cess, and will intallably put me into jail. Do, 
for God's sake, send me that sum, and that by 
return of post. Forgive me this earnestness, 
but the horrors of a jail have made me hait dis- 
tracted. I do not ask all this gratuitously ; for, 
upon returning health, I hereby promise and en- 
gage to furnish you with five pounds worth ol 
the neatest song j^enius you have seen. I tried 
my hand on " Rothiemun. le" this morning. 
The measure is so difficult, that it is impossible 
to infuse much genius into the lines; they are 
on the other side. Forgive, forgive me ! 

(^Fairest maid on JPsvon Banks, p. 200.) 



No. XC. 



• It IS needless to say, that this revisal Bums did 
not live to perform. 



MR. THOMSON TO THE POET 

MY DEAR SIR, \^th July, 1796. 

Ever since I received your melancholy letter 
by Mrs. Hyslop, I have been ruminating in 
what manner I could endeavour to alleviate 
your sufferings. Again and again I thought of 
a pecuniary ofitr, but the recollection of one of 
your letters on this subject, and the fear of of 
fending your inde])endent spirit, checked my re 
solution. 1 thank you heartily, therefore, for 
the frankness of your letter of the 12th, and 
with great pleasure enclose a draft for the very 
sum I pioposed sending. Would I were the 
Chancellor of the Exchequer but for one day, 
for your sake. 

Pray, my good Sir, is it not possible for you 
to muster a volume of poetry ? If too much 
trouble to you in the present state of yoar 
health, some literary friend might be found 
here, who would select and arrange from your 
manuscripts, and take upon him the task of 
Editor. In the meantime it could be advertis- 
ed to be published by subscription. Do not 
shun this mode of obtaining the value of your 
labour ; remember Pope published the Iliad by 
subscription. Think of this, my dear Burns, 
and do not reckon me intrusive wi*^h my ad- 
vice. You are too weil convinced of the re- 
spect and friendship I bear you, to impute any 
thing 1 say to an unworthy motive. Yours 
faithfully. 

The verses to " Rotniemurchie" will answer 
finely. I am happy to see you can still tunc 
your lyre. 



GLOSSARY. 


The ch and gh have always the guttural sound. The sound of the E glish diphthong oo, la 


commonly spelled ou. The French m, 


a sound which often occurs in the Scottish language. 


is marked oo^ or uL The a in. genuine Scottish words, except when forming a diph"thong^ 1 


or followed by an e mute after a single 
a in wall The Scottish diphthong ce, 
masculine. The Scottish diphthong e 


; consonant, sounds generally like the broad English 


always, and ea, very often, sound like the French e 


y, sounds like the Latin ei. 




Ava, at all 


A 


Awa', away 
Awfu', awful 


A', All 


Aback, away, aloot 


Awn, the beard of barley, oats, &c. 


Abeigh, at a shy distance 


Awnie, bearded 


A boon, above, up 

A bread, abroad, in sight 


Ayont, beyond 


1 


Abreed, in breadth 


^ B 


Addle, putrid water, &c. 


Ae, one. 


BA', hall 


Art; off: Aff loof, unpremeditated 


Backets, ash boards 


Afore, before 


Backlins, coming ; coming back, returning 


Aft, oft 


Back, returning 


Aften, often 


, Bad, did bid 


A^^ley, off the right line ; wrong 




Baide, endured, did stay 


Ablins, perhaps 




Baggie, the belly 


Ain, own 




Bainie, having large bones, stout 


Airle-penny, Airles, earnest money 




Bairn, a child 


Aim, iron 




Bairn time, a family of children, a brood 


Aith, an oath 




Baith, both 


Aits, oats 




Ban, to swear 


Aiver, an old horse 




Bane, bone 


Aizle, a hot cinder 




Bang, to beat ; to strive 


A lake, alas 


Bardie, diminutive of bard 1 


Alane, alone 




Barefit, barefooted 


A k wart, awkward 




Barmie, of, or like barm 


Amaist, almost 




Batch, a crew, a gang 


Amang, among 




P)atts, bots 


An', and; if 




Baudrons, a cat 


Ance, once 




Bauld, bold 


Ane, one; and 




Bawk, bank 


Anent, over against 




Baws'nt, having a white stripe down the face 


Anither, another 




Be, to let be ; to give over ; to cease 


Ase, ashes 




Bear, barley 


Asklent, asquint ; aslant 




Beastie, diminutive of beast 


Asteer, abroad ; stirring 




Beet, to add fuel to fire 


Athart, athwart 




Beld, bald 


Aught, possession ; as. In a' my aught, 


in all 


Belyve, by and by 


my possession 




Ben, into the spence or parlour ; a spence 


Auld lang syne, olden time, days of other 


Benlomond, a noted mountain in Dunibartoi. 


years 




shire 


Auld, old 




Hethankit, grace after meat 


Anldfarran, or, auld farrant, sagacious. 


cun- 


lleuk, a hook 


ning, prudent 




Bicker, s kir,d of wood.'n dish ; a short race 


(1) 





GLOSSARY. 



Bie, or Bield shelter 

Bien, wealthy, plentiful 

fiig to build 

nii.Tgin, buikling; a house 

•^iiggit, built 

Bill, a bull 

Rillie, a brother; a young fellow 

Bing, a heap of grain, potatoes, &c. 

Biric, birch 

Birken-shaw, Birchen-wood-shaw, a small 

wood. 
Birkie, a clever fellow 
Birring, the noise of partridges, &c. when they 

spring 
Bit, crisis, nick of time 
Bizz, a bustle, to buzz 

Blastie, a shrivelled dwarf; a term of contempt 
Blastit, blasted 
Blate, bashful, sheepish 
Blather, bladder 

Bladd, a flat piece of any thing ; to slap 
Blaw, to blow, to boast 
Bleerit, bleared, sore with rheum 
Bleerit and blin', bleared and blind 
Bleezing, blazing 
Blellum, an idle talking fellow 
Blether, to talk idly ; nonsense 
Bleth'rin', talking idly 
Blink, a little while ; a smiling look ; to look 

kindly ; to shine by fits 
Blinker, a term of contempt 
Blinkin, smirking 

Blue-gown, one of those beggars who get an- 
nually, on the king's birth-day, a blue cloak 

or gown, with a badge 
Bluid, blood 

Bluntie, a sniveller, a stupid person 
Blype, a shred, a large piece 
Bock, to vomit, to gush intermittently 
Bocked, gushed, vomited 
Bodle, a small gold coin 
Bogles, spirits, hobgoblins 
Bonnie or bonny, handsome, beautiful 
Bonnock, a kind of thick cake of bread, a 

small jannock, or loaf made of oat meal 
Boord, a board 
Boortree, the shrub elder ; planted much of 

old in hedges of barn-yards, &c. 
Boost, behaved, must needs 
Bore, a hole in the wall 
Botch, an angry tumour 
Bousing, drinking 
Bow-kail, cabbage 
Bowt, bended, crooked 
Brackens, fern 
Brae, a declivity ; a precipiece ; the slope of a 

hill 
Braid, broad 

Braindg't, reeled forward 
Braik, a kind of harrow 
Braindge, to run rashly forward 
Brak, broke, made insolvent 
Branks, a kind of wooden curb for horses 
Brash, a sudden illness 
Brats, coarse clothes, rags, &c. 
Brattle, a short race ; hurry ; fury 
Braw, fine, handsome 

Brawly, or brawjie, very well ! finely ; heartily 
Braxie, a morbid sheep 
Breastie, diminutive of brenst 
Breastit, did spring up or forward 
Breckan, fern 

(21 



Breef, an invulnerable or irresistible speD 

Breeks, breeches 

Brent, smooth 

Brewin', brewing 

Brie, juice, liquid 

Brig, a bridge 

Brunstane, brimstone 

Brisket, the breast, the bosom 

Brither, a brother 

Brock, a badger 

Brogue, a hum ; a trick 

Broo, broth ; a trick 

Broose, broth; a race at country weddings, 

who shall first reach the bridegrooms's house 

on returning from church 
Browster-wives, ale-house wives 
Brugh, a burgh 
Bruilzie, a broil, a combustion 
Brunt, did burn, burnt 
Brust, to burst ; burst 
Buchan-bullers, the boiling of the sea among 

the rocks of Buchan 
Buckskin, an inhabitant of Virginia 
Bught, a pen 
Bughtin-time, the time of collecting tlie sheep 

in the pens to be milked 
Buirdly, stout made ; broad made 
Bum-clock, a humming beetle that flies in the 

summer evenings 
Bumming, humming as bees 
Bummle, to blunder 
Bummler, a blunderer 
Bunker, a window-seat 
Burdies, diminutive of birds 
Bure, did bear 
Burn, water, a rivulet 
Burnewin, i. e. burn the wmd, a blacksmith 
Burnie, diminutive of burn 
Buskie, bushy 
Buskit, dressed 
Busks, dresses 
Bussle, a bustle ; to bustle 
Buss, shelter 
But, hot, with ; without 
But an' ben, the country kitchen and parlouf 
By himsel, lunatic, distracted 
Byke, a bee-liive 
Byre, a cow-stable; a sheep-pen 



CA , to call, to name ; to drive 

Ca*t, or ca'd, called, driven ; calved 

Cad«jer, a carrier 

Cadie. or Caddie, a person ' a young feUow 

C'afF, chaff 

Caird, a tinker 

Cairn, a loose heap of stones 

Calf- ward, a small enclosure for calves 

Callan, a boy 

Caller, fresh ; sound ; refreshing 

Canie, or cannie, gentle, mild ; dexterous 

Cannilie, dexterously; gently 

Can tie, or canty, cheerful, merry 

Cantrip, a charm, a spell 

Cape-stane, cope-stone ; key-stone. 

Careerin, cheerfully 

Carl, an old n)an 

Carlin, a stout old woman 

Cartes, cards 

Caudron. a cauldron 

Cauk ail' keel, cJialk and red duy 



GLOSSARY. 



Cauld, cold 

Caup, a wooden drinking vessel. 

Cesses, taxes 

Chanter, a part of a bagpipe 

Chap, a person, a fellow ; a blow 

Chaup, a stroke, a blow 

Cheekit, cheeked 

Cheep, a chirp ; to chirp 

Chiel , or cheel, a young fellow 

Chimla, or chimlie, a fire-grate, a fire-place 

Chimla-lug, tne fireside 

Chittering, shivering, trembling 

Chockin', choking 

Chow, to chew ; Cheek for chow, side by side 

Chuffie, fat-faced 

Clachan, a small village about a church; a 
hamlet 

Claise, or claes, clothes 

Claith, cloth 

Claithing, clothing 

Claivers, nonsense ; not speaking sense 

Clap, clapper of a mill 

Clarkit, wrote 

Clash, an idle tale, the story of the day 

Clatter, to tell idle stories ; an idle story 

Claught, snatched at, laid hold of 

Claut, to clean ; to scrape 

Clauted, scraped 

Clavers, idle stories. 

Claw, to scratch 

Cleed, to clothe 

Cleeds, clothes 

Cleekit, having caught 

Clinkin, jerking ; clinking 

Clinkumbell, he who rings the church-bell 

Clips, shears 

Clishmaclaver, idle conversation 

Clock, to hatch ; a beetle 

Clockin, hatching 

Cloot, the hoof of a cow, sheep, &c. 

Clootie, an old name for the Devil. 

Clour, a bump or swelling after a blow 

Cluds, clouds 

Coaxin, wheedling 

Coble, a fishing boat 

Cockernony, a lock of hair tied upon a girlV 
head ; a cap 

Coft, bought 

(Jem, a wooden dish 

Coggie, diminutive of cog 

Coila, from Kyle, a district of Ayrshire ; so 

■ called, saith tradition, from Coil, or Coilus, 
a Pictish monarch 

Collie, a general and sometimes a particular 
name for country curs 

Collieshangie, quarrelling, an uproar 

Comniaun, command 

Cood, the cud 

Coof, a blockhead ; a ninny 

Cookit, appeared and disappeared by fits 

Const, did cast 

Coot, the ankle or foot 

Cootie, a wooden kitchen dish : — also, those 
fowls whose legs are clad with feathers are 
said to be cootie 
Corbies, a species of the crow 
Core, corps ; party ; clan 
Corn't, fed with oats 

Cotter, the inhabitant of a cot-house, or cot- 
tager 
Couthie, kind, dng 



Cove, a cave 

Cowe, to terrify • to keep uncf.er, to lop ; fright ; 

a branch of furze, broom, &c. 
Cowp, to barter ; to tumble over ; a gang 
Cowpit, tumbled 
Cowrin', cowering 
Cowt, a colt 
Cozie, snug 
Cozily, snugly 
Crabbit, crabbed, fretful 
Crack, conversation ; to converse 
Crackin', conversing 
Craft, or croft, a held near a house (in oiu 

husbandry) 
f Taiks, cries or calls incessantly ; a bir-i 
Crambo-clink, or crambo-jingle, rhymes, dog 

grel verses 
Crank, the noise of an ungreased wheel 
Crankous, fretful, captious 
Cranreuch, the hoar frost 
Crap, a crop ; to crop 
Craw, a crow of a cock ; a rook 
Creel, a basket ; to have one's wits in a creCk, 

to be crazed ; to be fascinated 
Creepie-stool, the same as cutty-stool 
Creeshie, greasy 

Crood, or croud, to coo as a dove 
Croon, a hollow and contmued moan ; to make 

a noise like the continued roar of a bull ; to 

hum a tune 
Crooning, humming 
Crouchie, crook-backed 
Croose, cheerful ; courageous 
Crousely, cheerfully ; courageously 
Crowdie, a composition of oat-meal and boil- 

ed water, sometimes from the brotli of beef. 

mutton, &c. 
Crowdie-tinie, breakfast time 
Crowlin', crawling 

Crummock, a cow with crooked horns 
Crump, hard and brittle ; spoken of bread 
Crunt, a blow on the head with a cudgel 
Cuif, a blockliead, a ninny 
Cummock, a short staff with a crooked head 
Curchie, a courtesy 

Curler, a player at a game on the ice, practis- 
ed in Scotland, called curlinir 
Curlie, curled, whose hair fulls naturally in 

ringlets 
Curling, a well known game on the ice 
Curmurrirg, murmuring; a slight lumblin^ 

noise 
Curpin, the crupper 
Cusliat, the dove, or wood-pigeon 

utty, short • a spoon broken in the middle 
'. utty -stool, the stool of repentance 

D 

DADDIE, a father 

Daffin, merriment ; foolishness 

Daft, merry, giddy ; foolish 

Daimen, rare, now and then ; |uaimen-icker 

an ear of corn now and then. 
Dainty, pleasant, good humoured, agreeable 
Daise, daez, to stupify 

Dales, plains, valleys I 

Darkliias, darkling i 

Daud, to thrash, to abuse 
Daur, to dare 
Daurt, darp«^ 



GLOSSARY. 



li 



Daurg, or daurk, a day's labour 

Davoc, David 

Dawd, a large piece 

Dawtit, or dawtet, fondled, caressed 

Dearies, diminutive of dears 

bearthfu', dear 

Deave, to deafen 

Deil-ma-care ! no matter ! for all that ! 

Deleerit, delirious 

Descrive, to describe 

Dight, to wipe ; to clean com from chaff 

Dight, cleaned from chaff 

Ding, to worst, to push 

Dink, neat, tidy, trim 

Dinna, do not 

Dirl, a slight tremulous stroke or pain 

Dizen, or dizz'n, a dozen 

Doited, stupified, hebetated 

Dolt, stupified, crazed 

Donsie, unlucky 

Dool, sorrow ; to sing dool, to lament, to 

mourn 
Doos, doves 
Dorty, saucy, nice 

Douce, or douse, sober, wise, prudent 
Doucely, soberly, prudently 
Dought, was or were able 
Doup, backside 

Doup-skelper, one that strikes the tail 
Dour and din, sullen and shallow 
Doure, stout, durable ; sullen, stubborn 
Dow, am or are able, can 
Dowff, pithless, wanting force 
Dowie, worn with grief, fatigue, &c. half a- 

sleep 
Downa, am or are not able, cannot 
Doylt, stupid 

Dozent, stupified, impotent 
Drap, a drop ; to drop 
Draigle, to soil by trailing, to draggle among 

wet, &c. 
Drapping, dropping. 

Draunting, drawling ; of a slow enunciation 
Dreep, to ooze, to drop 
Dreigh, tedious, long about it 
Dribble, drizzling; slaver 
Drift, a drove 
Droddum, the breech 
Drone, part of a bagpipe 
Droot)-rumprt, that droops at the crupper 
DrouKit, wet 
Drounting, drawling 
Drouth, thirst, drought 
Drucken, drunken 
Drumly, muddy 
Drummock, meal and water reixed m a K t 

state 
Drunt, pet, sour humour 
Dub, a small pond 
Duds, rags, clothes 
Duddie, ragged 
Dung, worsted ; pushed, driven 
Dunted, beaten, boxed 
Dush, to push as a ram, &c. 
Dusht, pushed by a ram, ox, &c. 



E'E, the eye 
E'en the eyes 
E'enmg, evening 



E 



(4) 



Eerie, frighted, dreading spirits 

Eild, old age 

Elbuck, the elbow 

Eldritch, ghastly, frightful 

Eller, an elder, or church officer 

En', end 

Enbrugh, Edinburgh. 

Eneugh, enough 

Especial, especially 

Ettle, to try, to attempt 

Eydent, diligent 



F 



FA', fall; lot; to fall 

Fa's does fall ; water-faUs 

Faddom't, fathomed 

Fae, a foe 

Feam, foam 

Faiket, unknown 

Fairin', a fairing ; a present 

Fallow, fellow 

Fand, did find 

Farl, a cake of oaten bread, &c. 

Fash, trouble, care ; to trouble, to care foi 

Fasht, troubled 

Fasteren-e'en, Fasten's Even 

Fauld, a fold ; to fold 

Faulding, folding 

Faut, fault 

Faute, want, lack 

Fawsont, decent, seemly 

Feal, a field ; smooth 

Fearfu', frightful 

Feart, frighted 

Feat, neat, spruce 

Fecht, to fight 

Fechtin', fighting 

Ffick, many, plenty 

Fecket, an under waistcoat with sleeves 

Feckfu', large, brawny, stout 

Feckless, puny, weak, silly 

Feckly, weakly 

Feg, a fig 

Feide, feud, enmity 

Feirrie, stout, vigorous, healthy 

Fell, keen, biting; the flesh immediately un. 

der the skin ; a field pretty level, on the side 

or top of a hill 
Fen, successful struggle ; fight 
Fend, to live comfortably 
Ferlie, or ferley, to wonder ; a wonder ; a term 

of contempt 
Fetch, to pull by fits 
Fetch't, pulled intermittently 
Fidge, to fidget 
Fiei, soft, smooth 
Fient, fiend, a petty oath 
Fier, sound, healthy ; a brother : a friend 
Fissle, to make a rustling noise ; to fidget ; a 

bustle 
Fit, a foot 
Fittie-lan', the nearer horse of the hindmost 

pair in the plough 
Fizz, to make a hissing noise, like fermenta* 

tion 
Flainen, flannel 

Fleech. to supplicate in a flattering manner 
Fleech'd, supplicated 
Fleechin', supplicating 
Fleesh, a fleece 



GLOSSARY. 



Fleg, a kick, a random stroke 

Flether, to decoy by fair words 

Fletherin', flattering 

Fley, to scare, to frighten 

Flitcher, to flutter, as young nestlings when 
their dam approaches 

Flinders, shreds, broken pieces, splinters 

Flingin'-tree, a piece of timber hung by way 
of partition between two horses in a stable ; 
a flail 

Flisk, to fret at the yoke 

Flisket, fretted 

Flitter, to vibratt like the win s of small 
birds 

Flittering, fluttering, vibrating 

Flunkie, a servant in livery 

Fodgel, squat and plump 

Foord, a ford 

Forbears, forefathers 

Forbye, besides 

Forfairn, distressed; worn out, jaded 

Forfoughten, fatigued 

Forgather, to meet, to encounter with 

For^e, to forgive 

Forjesket, jaded with fatigue 

Fother, fodder 
j I Fou, full ; drunk 
I I Foughten, troubled, harassed 
I ! Fouth, plenty, enough, or more than enough 
I Fow, a bushel, &c. ; also a pitch-fork 

I I Frae, from; oflP 

Frammit, strange, estranged from, at enmity 
with 

Freath, froth 

Fnen', friend 

Fu', fuU 

Fud, the scut, or tail of the hare, cony, &c. 

FuflT, to blow intermittently 

Fufi''t, did blow 

Funnie, full of merriment 

Fur, a furrow 

Furm, a form, bench 

Fyke, trifling cares ; to piddle, to be in a fuss 
about trifles 

Fyle, to soil, to dirty 

Fyl't, soiled, dirtied 

G 

GAB, the mouth ; to speak boldly, or pertly 

Gaberlunzie, an old man 

Gadsman, a ploughboy, the boy that drives the 

horses in the plough 
Gae, to go ; gaed, went ; gaen, or gane, gone; 

gaun, going 
Gaet, or gate, way, manner; road 
Gairs, triangular pieces of cloth sewed on the 

bottom of a gown, &c. 
Gang, to go, to walk 
Gar, to make, to force to 
Gar't, forced to 
Garten, a garter 

Gash, wise, sagacious; talkative; to converse 
Gashin', conversing 
Gaucy, jolly, large 
Gaud, a plough 

Gear, ricnes ; goods of any kind 
Geek, to toss the head in wantonness or scorn 
Ged, a pike 

Gentles, great folks, gentry 
Genty, elegantly farmed, nea 
Geordie, a guinea 

- (5) 



Get, a child, a young one 

Ghaist, a ghost 

Gie, to give ; gied, gave ; gien, given 

Giftie, diminutive of gift 

Giglets, playful girls 

Gillie, diminutive of gill 

Gilpey, a half grown, half informed boy 01 

girl, a romping lad, a hoiden 
Gimmer, a ewe from one to two years old 
Gin, if; against 
Gipsey, a young girl 
Girn, to grin, to twist the features in rage, 

agony, &c. 
Girning, grinning 

Gizz, a periwig 

Glaiket, inattentive, foolish 

Glaive, a sword 

Gawky , half, witted, foolish, romping 

Glaizie, glittering ; smooth like glass 

Glaum, to snatch greedily 

Glaum'd, aimed, snatched 

Gieck, sharp, ready 

Gleg, sharp, ready 

Gleib, glebe 

Glen, a dale, a deep valley 

Gley, a squint ; to squint; a-gley, ofFat a side, 
wrong 

Glib-gabbet, smooth and ready in speech 

Glint, to peep 

Glinted, peeped 

Glintin', peeping 

Gloamin', the twilight 

Glowr, to stare, to look ; a stare, a look 

Glowred, looked, 8tared 

Glunsh, a frown, a sour look 

Goavan, looking round with a strange, inquir- 
ing gaze ; staring stupidly 

Gowan, the flower of the wild daisy, hawk- 
weed, &c. 

Gowany, daisied, abounding with daisies 

Gowd, gold 

GowiF, the game of golf; to strike as the bat 
does the ball at golf 

GowfF'd, struck 

Gowk, a cuckoo ; a term of contempt 

Gowl, to howl 

Grane, or grain, a groan ; to groan 

Grain'd and grunted, groaned and grunted 

Graining, groaning 

Graip, a pronged instrument used for cleaning 
stables 

Graith, accoutrements, furniture, dress, gear 

Grannie, grandmother 

Grape, to grope 

Grapit, groped 

(jrrat, wept, shed tears 

Great, mtiniaie, familiar 

Gree, to agree ; to bear the gree, to be dedd- 
ediy victor 

Gree't, agreed 

Greet, to shed tears, to weep 

Greetin', crying, weeping 

Grippet, catched, seized 

Groat, to get the whistle of one's groat, to play 
a losing game 

Grousome, loathsomely grim 

Grozet, a gooseberry 

Grumph, a grunt ; to grunt 

Grumphie, a sow 

Grun\ ground 

Grunstane, a grindstone 

Gruntle, the phiz ; a grunting noise 



I! 



GLOSSARY 



Gninzie, mouth 

Grushie, thick ; of thriving growth 

Gude, the Supreme Being ; good 

Guid, good 

Guid-mornin', good morrow 

Guid-e'en, goocl evening 

Guidman and guidwife, the master and mis- 
tress of the house ; young guidman, a man 
newly married 

Guid-willie, liberal ; cordial 

Guidfather, guidmother, father-ic-law, and 
mother-in-law 

Gully, or gullie, a large knife 

Gumlie, muddy 

Gusty, tasteful 

H 

HA', haU 

Ha'-Bible, the great bible that lies in the 
haU 

Hae, to have 

Haen, had, the participle 

Haet, fint haet, a petty oath of negation ; no- 
thi:;g 

HafFet, the temple, tlie side of the head 

Hafflins, nearly half, partly 

Hag, a scar, or gulf in mosses, and moors 

Haggis, a kind of pudding boiled in the sto- 
mach of a cow or sheep 

Hain, to spare, to save 

Hain'd, spared 

Hairst, harvest 

Haith, a petty oath 

Haivers, nonsense, speaking without thought 

Hal', or hald, an abiding place 

Hale, whole, tight, healthy 

Haly, holy 

Hame, home 

Hallun, a particular partition -wall in a cot- 
tage, or more properly a seat of turf at the 
outside 

Hallowmas, Hallow-eve, the 31st of October 

Kamely, homely, affable 

Han', or haun', hand 

Hap, an outer garment, mantle, plaid, &c. to 
wrap, to cover ; to hop 

Happer, a hopper 

Happin', hopping 

Hap step an' loup, hop skip and leap 

Harkit, hearkened 

Ham, very coarse linen 

Hash, a fellow that neither knows how to dress 
nor act with propriety 

Hastit, hastened 

Haud, to hold 

Haughs, low lying, rich lands ; valleys 

Haurl, to drag ; to peel 

Haurlin, peehn-g 

Haverel, a half witted person ; halfwitted 

Havins, good manners, decorum, good sense 

Hawkie, a cow, properly one with a white fiu:e 

Heapii, heaped 

Healsome, healthful, wholeseme 

Hearse, hoarse 

Hear't, hear it 

Heather, heath 

Hech ! oh ! strange! 

Hecht, promised ; to foretell something that is 
to be got or given ; foretold ; the thing fore- 
told ; offered 

Heckle, a board, in which are fixed a number 

(6» 



of sharp pms, used in dressing hemp,flax 
&c. 

Heeze, to elevate, to raise 

Helm, the rudder or helm 

Herd, to tend flocks ; one who tends flocks 

Herrin, a herring 

Kerry, to plunder ; most properly to plundei 
birds' nests 

Herryment, plundering, devastation 

Hersel, herself ; also a herd of cattle, ot any 
sort 

Het, hot 

Heugh, a crag, a coalpit 

Hilch, a hobble ; to halt 

Hilchin, halting 

Himsel, himself 

Hinpy, honey 

Hing, to hang 

Hirple, to walk crazily, to creep 

Hirsel, so many cattle as one person can attend 

Hastie, dry ; chapped ; barren 

Hitch, a loop, a knot 

Hizzie, a hussy, a young girl 

Hoddin, the motion of a sage countryman rid- 
ing on a cart-horse ; humble 

Hog-score, a kind of distance-line, in curKng, 
drawn across the rink 

Hog-shouther, a kind of horse- play, byjust- 
ling with ,the shoulder ; to justle 

Hool, outer skin or case, a nut-shell ; a peas- 
cod 

Hoolie, slowly, leisurely 

Hoolie ! take leisure, stop 

Hoord, a hoard ; to hoard 

Hoordit, hoarded 

Horn, a spoon made of horn 

Homie, one of the many names of the devil 

Host, or hoast, to cough ; a cough 

Hostin', coughing 

Hosts, coughs 

Hotch'd, turn'd topsyturvy ; blended, mixed 

Houghmagandie, fornication 

Houlet, an owl 

Housie, diminutive of house 

Hove, to heave, to swell 

Hoved, heaved, swelled 

Howdie, a midwife 

Howe, hollow ; a hollow or dell 

Howebackit, sunk in the back, spoken of a 
horse, &c. 

HowfF, a tippling house ; a house of resort 

Howk, to dig 

Howkit, digged 

Howkin, digging 

Howlet, an owl 

Hoy, to urge 

Hoy't, urged 

Hoyse, to pull upwards 

Hoyte, to amble crazily 

Hugboc, diminutive ot Hugh 

Hurcheon, a hedgehog 

Hurdles, the loins : the .^ruppei 

Uushion, a cushion 



1 

r,in 

Icker, an ear of com 

Ier«oe, a great-grandchild 

Ilk, or ilka, each, every 

iiJUwiUie., ill-natured, malicious, niggardly 

logine, genius, ingenuity 



I I 



I I 



GLOSSARY. 



Ingle, firt ; fire-place 
Ise, I shall or will 
Ither, other ; one another 



J A D, jade ; also a familiar term among coun- 
try folks for a g'ddy young girl 

Tauk, to dally, to trifle 

Juukin', trifling, dallying 

Jaup, a jerk of water ; to jerk as agitated wa- 
ter. 

Jaw, coarse raillery ; to pour out ; to shut, to 
jerk as water 

Jerkinet, a jerkin, or short grown 

Jillet, a jilt, a giddy girl 

Jimp, to jump; slender in the waist; hand- 
some 

Jimps, easy stays 

Jink, to dodge, to turn a corner ; a sudden 
turning ; a corner 

Jinker, that turns quickly ; a gay sprightly 
girl ; a wag 

Jinkin', dodging 

Jirk, a jerk 

Jocteleg, a kind of knife 

Jouk, to stoop, to bow the head 

Jow, to jow, a verb which includes both the 
swinging motion and pealing sound of a 
large bell 

Jundie, to justle 

K 

KAE, a daw 

Kail, colewort ; a kind of broth 

Kail-runt, the stem of colewort 

Kain, fowls, &c. paid as rent by a farmer 

Kebbuck, a cheese 

Keckle, to giggle ; to titter 

Keek, a peep, to peep 

Kelpies, a sort of mischievous spirits, said to 
haunt fords and ferries at night, especially 
in storms 

Ken, to know ; kend or kenn'd, knew 

Kennin, a small matter 

Kenspeckle, well known, easily known 

Ket, matted, hairy ; a fleece of wool 

Kilt, to truss up the clothes 

Kiramer, a young girl, a gossip 

Kin, kindred ; kin', kind, adj. 

King's-hood, a certain part of the entrails of 
an ox, &c, 

Kintra, country 

Kintra cooser, country stallion 

Kirn, the harvest supper ; a churn 

Kirsen, to christen, or baptize 

Kist, a chest ; a shop counter 

Kitchen, any thing that eats with bread ; to 
serve for soup, gravy, «&c. 

Kith, kindred 

Kittle, to tickle ; ticklish ; lively, apt 

Kitthn, a young cat 

Kiuttle, to cuddle 

Kiuttlin, cuddling 

Knaggie, Uke knags, or points of rocks 

Knap, to strike smartly, a smart blow 

Knappin-hammer, a hammer used for break- 
ing stones 

Knowe, a small round hillock 

Knurl, a dwarf 

Kye, cows 



(7\ 



Kyle, a district in Ayrshire 

Kyte, the belly 

Kvilic, to discover ; to show one's sell 

L 

LADDIE, diminutive of lad 

Laggen, the angle betiveen the side and jot. 

torn of a wooden dish 
Laigh, low 
Lairing, wading, and sir.King in snow, mud, 

&c. 
Laith, loath 

I^aithfu', bashful, sheepish 
Lallans, the Scottish tdalecfof the English 

language 
Lambie, diminutive of lamb 
Lampit, a kind of shell-tish, a limpit 
Lan', land ; estate 
Lane, lone ; my lane, thy lane, &c. mysell 

alone, &c. 
Lanely, lonely 

Lang, long ; to think lang, to long, to weary 
Lap, did leap 

Lave, the rest, the remainder, the others 
Laverock, the lark 
Lawin, shot, reckoning, bill 
Lawlan', lowland 
Lea'e, to leave 
Leal, loyal, true, faithful 
Lea-rig, grassy ridge 
Lear, (pronounced lare), learning 
Lee-lang, live-long 
Leesome, pleasant 
Leeze-me, a phrase of congratulatory endear. 

ment ; I am happy in thee, or proud oi 

thee 
Leister, a three-prong'd dart for striking tLsh 
Leugh, did laugn 
Leuk, a look ; to look 
Libbet, gelded 
Lift, the sky 

Lightly, sneeringly ; to sneer at 
Lilt, a ballad ; a tune ; to sing 
Limmer, a kept mistress, a strumpet 
Limp't, Hm])ed, hobbled 
Link, to trip along 
Linkin', tripping 
Linn, a waterfall ; a precipiece 
Lint, Hax 

Lint i' the bell, flax in flower 
Lintwhite, a linnet 

Loan, or loanin', the place of milking 
Loof, the palm of the hand 
Loot, did let 
Looves, plural of loof 
Loun, a fellow, a ragamuffin ; a woman oi 

easy virtue 
Loup, jump, leap 
Lowe, a flame 
Lowin', flaming 

liowrie, abbreviation of Lawrence 
Lowse, to loose 
Lows'd, loosed 
Lug, the ear ; a handle 
Lugget, having a handle 
Luggie. a small wooden dish wi'Ji a handle 
liuni, the chimney 

Luncii, a large piece of cheese, fiesh, &e» 
Lunt, a coiunm of smoke ; to smoiw 
Lunun*, smoking 
Lyart, of a mixed coloor, gray 



GLOSSARY. 



M 

MAE, more 

Mair, more 

INIaist, most, almost 

Maisdy, moj'tly 

Mak, to make 

JMakin', making 

Mailen, a farm 

Mallie, Molly 

IMang, among 

JManse, the parsonage house, where the minis- 
ter lives 

Manteele, a mantle 

Mark, marks. (This and several other nouns 
which in English require an s to form the 
plural, are in Scotch, like the words sheep, 
deer, the same in both numbers.) 

Marled, variegated; spotted 

Mar's year, the year 1715 

Mashlum, meslin, mixed corn 

Mask, to mash, as malt, &c. 

JMaskin-pat, a tea-pot 

Maud, maad, a plaid worn by shepherds, &c 

Maukin, a hare 

Maun, must 

Mavis, the thrush 

Maw, to mow 

Ma win', mowing 

Meere, a mare 

Meikle, meickle, much 

Melancholious, mournful 

Melder, corn, or grain of any kind, sent to 
the mill to be ground 

Mell, to meddle. Also a mallet for pounding 
barley in a stone trough 

INI el vie, to soil with meal 

Men', to mend 

Mense, good manners, decorum 

Menseless, ill-bred, rude, impudent 

JMessin, a small dog 

Midden, a dunghill 

Midden-hole, a gutter at the bottom of a dung- 
hill 

Mim, prim, affectedly meek 

Min', mind; resemblance 

Mind't, mind it; resolved, intending 

Minnie, mother, dam 

Mirk, mirkest, dark, darkest 

Misca', to abuse, to call names 

Misca'd, abused 

Mislear'd, mischievous, unmannerly 

ftlisteuk, mistook 

IMither, a mother 

Mixtie-maxtie, confusedly mixed 

Moistify, to moii.:en 

Mony, or monie, many 

]\iools, dust, earth, the eartii of the grave ; to 
rake i' the mools ; to hiy in the dust 

Moop, to nibble as a sheep 

Moorlan', of or belonging to moors 

Morn, the next day, to-morrow 

Mou, the mouth 

JMoudiwort, a mole 

Mousie, diminutive of mouse 

Muckle, or mickle, great, big, much 

Musie, diminutive of muse 

Muslin-kail, broth, composed simply of water, 
shelled barley, and greens 

Mutchkin, an £nglish pint 

Mysel, mjself 

(8) 



N 

NA, no, not, n^x 

Nae, no, not any 

Naething, or naithing, nothing 

Naig, a horse 

iNane, none 

Nappy, ale ; to be tipsy 

Negleckit, neglected 

Neuk, a nook 

Niest, next 

Nieve, the fist 

Nievefu', handful 

NifFer, an exchange ; to exchange, to bAis« 

Niger, a negro 

Nine-tail'd-cat, a hangman's whip 

Nit, a nut 

Norland, of or belonging to the north 

Notic't, noticed 

Nowte, black cattle 



()', of 

Ochils, name of a range of mountains in Clack* 

mannon and Kinross-shires 
() liuith, O faith ! an oatn 
Ony, or onie, any 
Or, is often used for ere, before 
Ora, or orva, supernumerary, that can b« 

spiUfd 
O't, (.1 it 

Ourie shivering ; drooping 
Ourscl', or oursels, ourselves 
Outlers, cattle not housed 
Owre, over ; too 
Owre-hip, a way of fetching a blow with the 

hammer over the arm 



PA('K, intimate, familiar; twelve stone of 
wool 

Painch, paunch 

Paitrick, a partridge 

Pang, to cram 

Parie, speech 

Parritcii, an oatmeal pudding, a well-knowc 
Scotch dish 

t^at, did put ; a pot 

Fattle, or pettle, a plough-staff" 

Paughty, proud, haughty 

Pauky, or pawkie, cunnmg, sly 

i'ay't, paid ; beat 

P> ch, to fetch the breath short, as in an asth- 
ma 

Pechan , the crop, the stomach 

Peelin' peeling, the rind of fruit 

Pet, a u nnesticated sheep, &c. 

Pettle, to cherish ; a plough-staff" 

Philabegs, short petticoats worn by the Higti- 
landnien 

Ph raise, fair speehes, flattery ; to flatter 

Phraisin', tiattery 

Pibroch, Highland war music adapted to the 
bagi)ipe 

Pickle, a small quantity 

Pine, pain, uneasiness 

Pit, to put 

Placard, public proclamatiou 



GLOSSARY. 



! I 



p!.:ck, a:i old Scotch coin, the third part of a 
Scotch penny, twelve of which make an 
English penny 

Plackless, pennyless, without money 

Platie, diminutive of plate 

Plew, or pleugh, a plough 

Pliskie, a trick 

Poind, to seize cattle or goods for rent, as the 
laws of Scotland allow 

Poortith, poverty 

Pou, to pull 

Pouk, to pluck 

Poussie, a hare, or cat 

Pout, a poult, a chick 

Pou't, did pull 

Powthery, like powder 

Pow, the head, the skull 

Pownie, a little horse 

Powther, or pouther, powder 

Preen, a pin 

Prent, to print ; print 

Prie, to taste 

Prie'd, tasted 

Prief, proof 

Prig, to cheapen ; to dispute 

Priggin, cheapening 

Primsie, demure, precise 

Propone, to lay down, to propose 

Provoses, provosts 

Puddock-stool, a musheroom, fungus 

Pund, pound ; pounds 

Pyle, — a pyle o' cafF, a single grain of chaif 



QUAT, to quit 
Quak, to quake 
Quey, a cow from one to two years old 

R 

RAGWEED, the herb ragwort 

Raible, to rattle nonsense 

Rair, to roar 

Raize, to madden, to inflame 

Ram-feezl'd, fatigued ; overspread 

Ram-stam, thoughtless, forward 

Raploch, properly a coarse cloth ; but used as 
an ad noun* for coarse 

Rarely, excellently, very well 

Rash, a rush ; rash-buss, a bush of rushes 

Ratton, a rat 

Raucle, rash ; stout ; fearless 

Raught, reached 

Raw, a row 

Rax, to stretch 

Ream , cream ; to cream 

Reammg, brimful, frothing 

Reave, rove 

Reck, to heed 

Rede, counsel ; to counsel 

Rod. wat-shod, walking in blood over the shoe- 
tops 

Red-wud, stark mad 

Ree, half drunk, fuddled 

Reek, smoke 

Reekin', smoking 

Reekit, smoked ; smoky 

Remead, reiTk^dy 

Requite, requited 

Rest, to stand restive 

Restit. stood restive stunted ; withered 

(9) 



Restricted restricted 

Rew, to rej ent, to compassionate 

Rief, reef, plenty 

Rief randies, sturdy beggars 

Rig, a ridge 

liigwiddie, rigwoodie, the rope or chain that 

crosses the saddle of a horse to support the 

spokes of a cart; spare, withered, sapless 
Rin, to run, to melt 
Rinnin', running 
Rink, the course of the stones ; a term in curL 

ing on ice 
Rip, a handful of un thrashed corn 
Riskit, made a noise like the tearing of roots 
Rockiii', spinning on the rock, or distaff 
Rood, stands likewise for die plural roods 
Roon, a shred, a border or selvage 
Roose, to praise, to commend 
Roosty, rusty 

Roun', round, in the circle of neighbourhood 
Roupet, hoarse, as with a cold 
Routhie, plentiful 
Row, to roll, to wrap 
Row't, rolled, wrapped 
Rowte, to low, to bellow 
Routh, or routh, plenty 
Rowtin', lowing 
Rozet, rosin 
Rung, a cudgel 
Runkled, wrinkled 

Runt, the stem of cole wort or cabbage 
Ruth, a woman's name; the book so called 

sorrow 
Ryke, to reach 

S 

SAE, so 

Saft, soft 

Sair, to serve ; a sore 

Sairly, or sairlie, sorely 

Sair't, served * 

Sark, a shirt ; a shift 

Sarkit, provided in shirts 

Saugh, the willow 

Saul, soul 

Saumont, salmon 

Saunt, a saint 

Saut. salt, adj. salt 

Saw, to sotv 

Sawin', sowing 

Sax, six 

Scaith, to damage, to injure ; injury 

Scar, a cliff 

Scaud, to scald 

Scauld, to scold 

Scaur, ipt to be scared 

Scawl, A scold ; a termagant 

Scon, a cake of bread 
I Sconner, a loathing ; to loathe 
; Scraich, to scream as a hen, partridge, &c 
I Screed, to tear ; a rent 
I Scrieve, to glide swiftly along * 

Scrievin, gleesornely ; swiljJy 

Scrimp, to scant 
I Scrim pet, did scant ; scanty 

See'd, did see 

Seizin', seizing 

Sel, self; a body's sel, one's self alone 

SeU't, did seU 

Sen\ to send 

tent', I, &e. sent, or did send it ; send it 



GLOSSARY. 



ftervan , servan? 

Settlin', settling ; to get a settlin*, to be fright- 
ed into quietness 

Sets, sets off, goes a-wav 

Shachled, distorted ; shapeless 

Shaird, a shred, a shard 

Shangan, a stick cleft at one 2nd for putting 
the tail of a dog, &.c. into, by way of mis- 
chief, or to frighten him away 

Shaver, a humorous wag ; a barber 

Shaw, to show ; a small wood in a hollow 

Sheen, bright, shining 

Sbeep-shank ; to think one's s- If nae sheep- 
shank, to be conceited 

Sherra-moor, sheriff-moor, fhe famous battle 
fought in the rebellion, A. I). 1715 

Sheugn, a ditch, a trench, a sluice 

Shiel, a ditch, a trench, a sluice 

Shiel, a shed 

Shill, shrill 

Shog, a shock ; a push off at one side 

Shool, a shovel 

Shoon, shoes 

Shore, to offer, to threaten 

Shor'd, offered 

Shouther, the shoulder 

Sliure, did shear, shore 

Sic, such 

Sicker, sure, steady 

Sidelins, sidelong, slanting 

Siller- silver ; money 

Simmer, summer 

Sin, a son 

Sin', since 

Skaith, see scaith 

Skellum, a worthless fellow 

Skelp, to strike, to siap ; to walk witn a smart 
tripping step ; a smart stroke 

Skelpie-limmer, a reproachful term in female 
scolding 

Skelpin', stepping, walking 

Skiegh, or skeigh, proud, nice, highmettled 

Skinklin, a small portion 

Skirl, to shriek, to cry shrilly 

Skirling, shrieking, crying 

Skirl 't, shrieked 
I Sklent, slant ; to run aslant, to deviate from 

truth 
1 Sklented, ran, or hit, in an oblique direction 

Skouth, freedom to converse without restraint ; 
I range, scope 
I Skriegh, a scream ; to scream 
j Skyrin', shining ; making a groat show 
I Skyte, force, very forcible motion 

Slae, a sloe 
I Slade, did slide 
j Slap, a gate ; a breach in a fence 

Slaver, saliva ; to emit saliva 

Slaw, slow 

Slee, sly ; sleest, sliest 

Sleekit, sleek ; sly 

Sliddry, slippery 

Slype, to fall over, as a wet fiirrow from the 
plough 

Slypet, fell 

Si;ia', small 

Snieilduui, dasi, powder; mettle, sense 

Sniiddy, a smithy 

Smoor, to smother 

Snioor'd, smothered 

Snioutie, smutty, obscene, ugly 

Sniytrie. a numer tis collecuon of small Indi- 
vid aa's 

(10) 



Snapper, to stumble, a stumble 

Snash, abuse. Billingsgate 

Snaw, snow ; to snow 

Snaw-broo, melted snow 

Snawie, snowy 

Sneck, snick, the latch of a door 

Sned, to lop, to cut off 

Sneeshin, snuff 

Sneeshin-mill, a snuff-box 

Snell, bitter, biting 

Snick-drawing, trick-contriving, ciafty 

Snirtle, to laugh restrainedly 

Snood, a ribbon for binding the hair 

Snool, one whose spirit is broken with oppre&. 

sive slavery ; to submit tamely, to sneaK 
Snoove, to go smoothly and constantly ; u 

sneak 
Snowk, to scent or snuff, as a dog, &c. 
Snowkit, scented, snuffed 
Sonsie, having sweet, engaging looks ; lucky 

jolly 
Soom, to swim 
Sooth, truth, a petty oath 
Sough, a heavy sigh, a sound dying on the 

ear 
Souple, flexible ; swift 
Souter, a shoemaker 
Sowens, a dish made of oatmeal ; the seeds o 

oatmeal soured, &c. flummery 
S»wp, a spoonful, a small quantity of an 

thing liquid 
Sowth, to try over a tune with a low whistle 
Sowther, solder ; to solder, to cement 
Spae, to propliesy, to divine 
Spaul, a limb 

Spairge, to dash, to soil, as with mire 
Spaviet, having the spavin 
Spean, spane, to wean 
Speat, or spate, a sweeping torrent, after rain 

or thaw 
Speel, to climb 
Spence, the country pprlour 
Spier, to ask, to inquire 
Spier't, inquired 
Splatter, a splutter, to splutter 
Spleughan, a tobacco-pouch 
Splore, a frolic ; a noise, riot 
Sprackle, sprachle, to clamber 
Sprattle, to scramble 
Spreckled, spotted, speckled 
Spring, a quick air in music ; a Scottisli reel 
Sprit, a tough-rooted plant, something hki 

rushes 
Sprittie, full of spirits 
Spunk, fire, mettle ; wit 
Spunkie, mettlesome, fiery ; will-o'wisp, or ig 

nis fatuus 
Spurtle, a stick, used in maki«g oatmeal pud 

ding or porridge 
Squad, a crew, a party 
Squatter, to flutter ir> water as a wild duck 
Squattle, to sprawl 

Squeel, a scream, a screech ; to scream 
Stacher, to stagger 
Stack, a rick of corn, hay, &c. 
Staggie, the diminutive of stag 
Stalwart, strong, s-tout 
Stan', to stand ; stan'^t, did stand 
Stane, a stone 

Stang, an acute pain ; a twinge ; to stuig 
Stank, did stink ; a pool of standing water 
Stap, stop 
Stark, stout 



GLOSSARY. 



Startle, to run as cattle stung by the gad-fly 

Stanmrel a blockhead ; half-witted 

Staw, did steal; to surfeit 

Stech, to cram the belly 

Stechin, Cramming 

Steek, lo shut ; a stitch 

Steer, to molest; to stir 

Steeve, firm, compacted 

Stell, still 

Sten, to rear as a horse 

Sten't, reared 

Stents, tribute; dues rf any kind 

Stey, steep ; steyest, steepest 

Stibble, stubble; stibble-rig, the reaper in 
harvest who takes the lead 

Stick an' stow, totally, altogether 

Stile, a crutch; to halt, to limp 

Stimpart, the eighth part of a Winchester 
bushel 

Stirk, a cow or bullock a year old 

Stock, a plant or root of colewort, cabbage, 
&c. 

Stockin, a stocking-; Throwing the stockin, 
when the bride and bridegroom are put into 
bed, and the candle out, the former throws a 
stocking at random among the company, 
and the person whom it strikes is the next 
that will be married 

Stoiter, to stagger, to stammer 

Stocked, made up in shocks as corn 

Stoor, sounding hollow, strong, and hoarse 

Stot, an ox 

Stoup, or stowp, a kind of jug or dish with a 
handle 

Stour, dust, more particularly dust in motion 

Slowlins, by stealth 

Stown, stolen 

Stoyte, to stumble 

Strack, did strike 

Strae, straw; to die a fair strae heath, to die 
in bed 

Straik, did strike 

Straikit, stroked 

Strappm', tall and handsome 

Straught, straight, to straighten 

Streek, stretched tight; to stretch 

Striddle, to straddle 

Stroan, to spout, to piss 

Studdie, an anvil 

Siumpie, diminutive of stump 

Strunt, spirituous Hquor of any kind ; to walk 
sturdily ; huffj suUenness 

Stuff, corn or pulse of any kind 

Sturt, trouble; to molest 

Sturtin, frighted 

Sucker, sugar 

Sud, should 

Sugh, the continued rushing noise of wind or 
water 

Soutnron, southern ; an old name for the Eng- 
lish nation 

Swaiid, sward 

Swall'd, swelled 

Swank, stately, jolly 

S wankie, or swanker, a tight strapping young 
fellow or girl 

Swap, an exchange ; to barter 

Swarf, to swoon ; a swoon 

Swat, did sweat 

Swatch, a sample 

Swats, drink ; good ale 



Sweaten, sweating 

Swear, lazy, averse; dead-sweer, extremely a. 

verse 
Swoor, swore, did swear 
Swinge, to beat ; to whip 
Swirl, a curve ; an edJying blast, or pool ; a 

knot in wood 
Swirlie, knaggie, full of knots 
Swith, get away 
Swither, to hesitate in choice ; an irresolute 

wavering in choice 
Syne, since, ago ; then 



TACKETS, a kind of nails for driving into 

the heals of shoes 
Tae, a toe ; three tae'd, having three prongs 
Tairge, a target 
Tak, to take ; takin, taking 
Tamtallan, the name of a mountain 
Tangle, a sea-weed 
Tap, the top 

Tapetless, heedless, foolish 
Tarrow, to murmur at one's allowance 
Tarrow't, murmured 
Tarry-breeks, a sailor 
Tauld, or tald, told 

Taupie, a foolish, thoughtless young person 
Tanted, or tautie, matted together ; s))uken 

of hair or wool 
Tawie, that allows itself peaceably to be bund- 
led ; spoken of a horse, cow, &c. 
Teat, a small quanti y 
Teen, to provoke ; p ovocation 
Tedding, spreading . fter the mower 
Ten-hours bite, a sight feed to the horsea 

while in the yoke, in the forenoon 
Tent, a field-pulpit ; heed, caution ; to uike 

heed ; to tend or herd cattle 
Tentie, heedful, cautious 
Ten tl ess, heedless 
Teugh, tough 
Thack, thatch ; thack an' rape, clothing ne- 

cessaries 
Thae, these 

Thairras, small guts ; fiddle-strings 
Thankit, thanked 
Theekit, thatched 
Thegither, together 
Themsel, themselves 
Thick, intimate, familiar 
Thieveless, cold, dry, spited ; spoken of a 

person's demeanour 
Thir, these 
Thirl, thrill 

Thirl, d, thrilled, vibrated 
Thole, to sufFei, to endure 
Thowe, a thaw ; to thaw 
Thowless, slack, lazy 
Thrang, throng ; a crowa 
Thrappie, throat, windpipe 
Thrave, twenty-four sheaves or two shocks oi 

corn ; a considerable number 
Thraw, to sprain, to twist; to contradict 
i hrawin, twisting, &c. 
Thrawn, sprained, twisted ; contradicted 
Threap, to maintain by dint of assertion 
Threshin, thrashing 
Threteen, thirteen 
Thristle, thistle 
Through, to go on with ; to make out 



GLOSSARY. 



Throuther, pell-mell, confusedly 

Thud, to make a loud intermittent noise 

Thumpit, timmped 

Thysel, thyself 

Till't, to it 

Timmer, timber 

Tine, to lose ; tint, lost 

Tinkler, a tinker 

Tint the gate, lost the way 

Tip, a ram • 

Tippence, twopence 

Tirl, to make as ligh.t noise ; to uncover 

Tirlin, uncovering 

Tither, the other 

Tittle, to whisper 

rittlin, whispering 

Tocher, marriage pnrtioi 

Tod, a fox 

Toddle, to totter, like the walk of a child 

Toddlin, tottering 

Toom, empty, to empty 

Toop, a ram 

Toun, a hamlet ; a tarm-house 

Tout, the blast of a horn or trumpet ; to blow 
a horn, &c. 

Tow, a rope 

Towmond, a twelvemonth 

Towzie, rough, shaggy 

Toy, a very old fashion of female head-dress 

Toyte, to totter like old age 

Transmugrified, transmigrated, metamorphos- 
ed 

Trash trie, trash 

Trews, trowsers 

Trickle, full of tncks 

Trig, spruce, neat 

Trimly, excellently 

Trow, to beheve 

Trowth- truth, a petty oath 

Tryste, an appointment ; a fair 

Trysted, appointed ; To tryste, to make an 
appointment 

Try't, tried 

Tug, raw hiue. of which in old times plough- 
traces were ireqaently made 

Tulzie, a quarrel ; to quarrel, o < gl 

Twa, two 

Twa-three, a few 

'Twad, it would 

Twal, twelve; twal-pennie worth, a small 
quantity, a penny-worth 

N.B One penny English is 12d Scotch 

Twin, to part 

Tyke, a dog 



UNCO, strange, uncouth ; very, very great, 

j j prodigious 

I (' Uncos, news 

Unkenn'd, unknown 

Unsicker, uiisure. unsteaay 

Unskaith'd, undamaged, unnurt 

Unweeting, ui.witUi.^iy, unknowingly 

Upo% upon 



w 



Urchin, a hc-ujeliog 



VAP'RIN, vapouring 

Vera, very 

Virl, a ring round a column, Slc. 

Vittie, corn of all kinds, food 



WA*, wall ; wa's, walls 

Wabster, a weaver 

Wad, would ; to bet ; a bet, a pledge 

Wadna, would not 

Wae, wo ; sorrowful 

Waefu', woful, sorrowful, wailing 

M'^aesucks ! or waes me ! alas ! O the pitv» 

Waft, the cross thread that goes from the shut 

tie through the web ; woof 
Wair, to lay out, to expend 
Wale, choice ; to choose 
Waled, chose, chosen 
Walie, ample, large, jolly ; also an intarjec 

tion of distress 
Wame, the belly 
Wamefu\ a belly-full 
Wanchancie, unlucky 
'NVanrestfu', restless 
Wark, work 

Wark-lume, a tool to work with 
Warl, or warld, world 
Warlock, a wizard 

^Varly, worldly, eager on amassing wealth 
Warran, a warrant ; to warrant 
Warst, worst 

W^arstl'd or warsl'd, wrestled 
W'astrie, prodigality 
W'at, wet ; 1 wat, I wot, I know 
W'ater-brose, brose made of meal and w-itex 

simply, without the addition of milk, but- 
ter, &c. 
Wattle, a twig, a wand 
Wauble, to swing, to reel 
Waught, a draught 
Waukit, thickened as fullers do cloth 
Waukrife, not apt to sleep 
Waur, worse ; to worst 
Waur't, worsted 
Wean, or weanie, a chUd 
M^earie, or weary ; many a weary body, many 

a different person 
W elisor , weasand 

Wz,xvir ^' the stocking. See Stocking 
'^V^ -e, itiie; Wee things, little ones; ^^ee 

bit, a ^mall matter 
Weel, well ; Welfare, welfire 
Weet, rain, wetness 
^Veird, fate 
We'se, we shall 
Wha, who 
\rhaizle, to wheeze 
Whalpit, whelped 
Whang, a leathern string ; a piece of cneese, 

bread, &c. , to give the strappado 
Whare, where; Whare'er, wnerever 
Wheep, to fly nimbly, jerk ; penny-wheep, 

small beer 
Whase, whose 
Whatieck, nevertheless 
W'hid, the motion of a hare, running but not 

frightftt ; a lie 
Whiddin . running as a hare or cony 
Whigmeleeries, whims, fancies, crotchets 
M'hijigin'. crying, complaining, fretting 
Whirligigi'Tns, useless ornaments, trifling ap- 

pendages 
Whissle, a whistle ; to whistle 
I Whist, si'enre; to hold one V whisht, to be 
i silent 



(12^ 



GLOSSARY 



WHiisk, to sweep, to lash 

Whiskit, lashed 

Whitter, a hearty draught of liquor 

Whun-stane, a whin-stone 

Whyles, whiles, sometimes 

Wi', with 

Wicht, wight, powerful, strong; inventive; 
of a superior genius 

Wick, to strike a stone in an oblique direc- 
tion ; a term in curling 

Wicker, willow (the smaUer sort) 

Wiel, a small whirlpool 

Wifie, a diminutive or endearing term for 
wife 

Wilyart, bashful and reserved ; avoiding so- 
ciety or appearing awkward in it, wild, ti- 
mid, strange 

Wimple, to meander 

Wimpl't, meandered 

M'implin', waving, meandering 

Win, to win, to winnow 

l\^in't, winded as a bottom of yarn 

»¥in', wind ; Win's, winds 

Winn a, will not 

Winnock, a window 

V\'^insome, hearty, vaunted, gay 

Wintle, a staggering motion ; to stagger, to 
reel 

\Vinze, an oath 

Wins^ to wish 

Withouten, without 

Vrizen'd, hide-bound, dried, shrunk 

\ronner, a wonder ; a contemptuous appella- 
tion 

^^'^ons, dwells 

Woo', wool 

Woo, to court, to make love to 

Woodie, a rope, more properly one made of 
withes or willows 

^''oor-bab, the garter knotted belcw the knoc 
with a couple of loops 

(13) 



Wordy, worthy 
Worset, worsted 
Wow, an exclamation of pleasure m wwj. 

der 
Wrack, to teaze, to vex 
Wraith, a spirit, or ghost ; an apparition sx. 

actly like a living person, whose appeara f 

is said to forbode the person's approachi * 

death 
Wrang, wrong ; to wrong 
Wreeth, a drifted heap of snow 
Wud, mad, distracted 
Wumble, a wimble 
Wyl|^, to beguile 
Wyhecot, a flannel vest 
^Vyte, blame ; to blame 



y 



YAD, an old mare ; a worn out horse 

Ve ; this pronoun is frequently used for 

Yearns, longs much 

Yearlings, born in the same year, coevals 

Year is used both for singular and plural 

Yearn, earn, an eagle, an ospray 

Yel], barren, that gives no mUk 

Yerk, to lash, to jerk 

Yerkit, jerked, lashed 

'N'estreen, yesternight 

Yett, a gate, such as is usually at the ^ 

into a farm-yard or field 
YiU, ale 
Yird, earth 

Yokin', yoking ; a bout 
Yont, beyond 
Yoursel' yourself 
Yowe, a ewe 

Yowie, diminutive of yoir« 
Yule, Chxistnuui 



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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




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